EXCHANGE 


T3SS" 


B40-217-750 


University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

No.  1701:     January  1,  1917 


A  Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey 

EDITED  BY 

A.  C.  Judson,  J.  T.  Patterson,  J.  F.  Royster 


Published  by  the  University  six  times  a  month  and  entered  a? 

second-class  mail  matter  at  the  postoffice  at 

AUSTIN,  TEXAS 


The  benefits  of  education  and  of 
useful  knowledge,  generally  diffused 
through  a  community,  are  essential 
to  the  preservation  of  a  free  govern- 
ment. 

Sam  Houston- 


Cultivated  mind  is  the  guardian 
genius  of  democracy.  ...  It  is  the 
only  dictator  that  freemen  acknowl- 
edge and  the  only  security  that  free- 
men desire. 

Mirabeau  B.  Lamar 


•    j  ! 


to 


351726 


PREFACE 

The  University  of  Texas  set  apart  five  days  for  its  Com- 
memoration of  the  Shakespeare  Tercentenary  and  of  Harvey's 
discovery  of  blood  circulation,  April  22-26,  1916.  As  part  of 
the  program  four  addresses  were  delivered  in  the  main  audi- 
torium. That  on  Monday  morning  was  made  by  Professor  John 
M.  Manly,  Head  of  the  Department  of  English  in  the  University 
of  Chicago;  Judge  R.  L.  Batts,  of  the  Federal  Bench,  spoke 
Monday  afternoon;  Professor  Barrett  Wendall,  of  Harvard 
University,  on  Tuesday  morning;  and  Professor  "Wm.  E.  Ritter, 
Director  of  the  Scripps  Institution,  California,  on  Wednesday 
morning.  Their  spoken  words  are  herein  given  the  permanence 
of  print. 

Professor  James  W.  Bright,  of  Johns  Hopkins  University, 
was  the  principal  instructor  of  Doctor  Galloway,  to  whom,  in 
honor,  this  volume  is  dedicated.  Professor  BaskerviLl,  of  the 
University  of  Chicago,  and  Professor  Gray,  of  Leland  Stanford, 
Jr.,  University,  were  formerly  teachers  of  English  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Texas.  The  contributors  of  the  other  essays  still  are 
members  of  this  university's  faculty. 


CONTENTS 

Shakespeare  Himself,  by  John  Matthews  Manly 1 

The  Growth  of  Shakespeare,  by  Barrett  Wendell 28 

Shakespeare,  Purveyor  to  the  Public,  by  R.  L.  Batts 47 

Rhythmic  Elements  in  English,  With  Illustrations  From 

Shakespeare,  by  James  W.  Bright 68 

The  Quarrel  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  by  Charles  Read 

Baskervill 89 

Shakespeare's  Conception  of  Humor  as  Exemplified  in 

Falstaff,  by  Henry  David  Gray 97 

The  "Dying  Lament,"  by  Robert  Adger  Law 115 

Shakespeare  and  the  Censor  of  Great  Britain,  by  Evert 

Mordecai  Clark 126 

Shakespeare  and  the  New  Stagecraft,  by  William  Leigh 

Sowers  , 138 

The  Stratulax  Scenes  in  Plautus'  Truculentus,  by  Edwin 

W.  Fay  > 155 

William  Harvey,  by  A.  Richards 179 

"Know  Thyself" — Interpreted  by  Socrates,  Shakespeare, 

Wm.  Harvey,  and  Modern  Men,  by  Wm.  E.  Ritter.  . .  .  185 
Appendix 204 


SHAKESPEARE  HIMSELF 
BY  JOHN  MATTHEWS  MANLY 

Not  many  years  ago  it  was  currently  admitted  that  the 
earth  had  a  north  pole  and  a  south  pole,  but  it  was  held  that 
the  difficulties  of  reaching  either  were  so  great  that  the  task 
would  probably  never  be  accomplished.  Yet  both  the  north 
pole  and  the  south  have  been  reached. 

To-day  it  is  admitted  by  scholars  as  well  as  by  the  general 
public  that  somebody  wrote  the  poems  and  plays  commonly 
known  as  Shakespeare's,  but  it  is  doubted  by  many  scholars 
whether  it  will  ever  be  possible  from  the  information  at  our 
disposal  to  determine  what  kind  of  man  he  was,  what  were  his 
tastes,  his  special  accomplishments,  his  main  interests,  and  the 
experiences  of  life  by  which  these  were  developed  and  culti- 
vated. The  difficulties  which  seem  to  lie  in  the  way  of  such 
an  inquiry  are  neither  few  nor  insignificant.  In  the  first  placer 
the  records  and  traditions  remaining  of  the  man  himself  and 
the  impressions  he  made  on  his  contemporaries,  though  more 
numerous  than  for  almost  any  other  dramatist  of  his  time,  still 
are  too  vague,  too  lacking  in  detail  to  be  satisfactory  to  an  age 
like  ours,  which  in  the  case  of  its  favorite  writers  is  mainly  con- 
cerned with  items  of  petty  personal  gossip — where  they  will 
spend  the  summer,  whether  they  write  best  in  the  early  morn- 
ing or  toward  midnight,  whether  for  breakfast  food  they  prefer 
rolled  oats  or  baled  hay.  In  the  second  place,  the  other  sources 
of  information — the  poems  and  plays  themselves — offer  special 
difficulties  of  interpretation. 

The  plays  are  dramatic,  the  poems  are  narrative  and  imper- 
•onal,  and  the  sonnets  are  said  to  be  conventional  and  equally 
incapable  of  personal  application.  In  no  passage  can*  we  be 
sure,  it  is  said,  that  the  ideas  or  the  attitude  expressed  are  the 
ideas  or  attitude  of  the  author.  His  dramatis  personae  say  and 
do  what  is  not  only  appropriate  to  them  but  is  the  natural  and 
inevitable  expression  of  their  own  characters  and  social  expe- 
rience. Furthermore,  it  is  argued,  the  various  characters  in 
the  plays  display  a  range  of  experiences  and  of  technical  knowl- 


2  University  of  Texas  Bulletin  ^ 

edge  covering  every  field  of  human  activity  and  thought;  and 
consequently  we  cannot  infer  anything  in  regard  to  the  author's 
experience  and  training  except  that  they  were  universal ;  and  we 
must .  maintain  either  that  he  had  specialized  in  every  occupa- 
tion— as  butcher's  boy,  wool  dealer,  glove  maker,  horseman, 
dog  fancier,  doctor,  lawyer,  sailor,  musician,  schoolmaster,  sol- 
dier, and  statesman — or  that  he  was  of  so  universal  a  genius  that 
he  knew  all  things  without  specializing  in  any. 

Such  contentions  as  these  might  have  been  successfully  main- 
tained half  a  century  ago,  but  I  hope  to  show  that  the  most  im- 
portant of  them  are  no  longer  tenable  and  that  from  the  plays 
and  poems  it  is  possible,  by  the  exercise  of  care  and  judgment, 
to  learn  much  more  about  Shakespeare  himself  than  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  suppose.  We  cannot  expect  to-day  to  -establish 
permanent  habitations  at  either  the  north  or  the  south  pole  of 
his  personality;  but  we  can,  I  hope,  make  a  brief  flight  across 
the  most  interesting  regions  and  fix  some  landmarks  that  may  re- 
ward us  for  our  present  efforts  and  perhaps  guide  us  in  future 
journeys. 

With  this  hope  in  view,  I  shall  ask  you  to  make  with  me  a 
rapid  survey  of  the  following  features  as  displayed  in  the  works : 

1.  The  native  endowments  of  the  author. 

2.  His  accomplishments  and  interests. 

3.  The  changes  of  interest  in  the  plays,  considered  in  order 
of  composition. 

4.  The  changes  of  creative  power  in  the  later  plays. 

I  shall  then  ask  you  to  consider  briefly  how  far  it  is  possible 
to  adjust  the  personality  and  career  revealed  by  the  plays  with 
the  life  history  of  William  Shakespeare  as  vaguely  given  in  the 
records  and  traditions. 

Of  the  native  endowments  of  the  author  of  the  plays  the  most 
outstanding  is  perhaps  his  exuberant  vitality.  This  is  visible 
not  only  in  the  enormous  number  of  living  characters  created 
by  him,  but  most  strikingly  in  the  effervescent,  limitless  vitality 
of  single  characters  from  every  period  of  his  work.  There  are 
Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumaine  in  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  each 
one,  singly,  enough  to  exhaust  the  wit,  the  humor,  the  animal 
spirits  of  any  author,  and  yet  each  only  a  part  of  a  play  which 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  3 

is  itself  a  complete  bubble  of  vigorous  and  extravagant  youth. 
There  is  Mercutio,  such  an  embodiment  of  fantastic,  ebullient 
wit  and  humor  that  one  critic  has  declared  that  if  he  had  not 
died  early  in  the  play  he  could  not  have  failed  to  be  the  death  of 
the  author.  There  is  Sir  John  Falstaff,  gross  as  a  mountain, 
inexhaustible — "The  brain  of  this  foolish-compounded  clay, 
man,  is  not  able  to  invent  anything  that  tends  to  laughter  more 
than  I  invent  or  is  invented  on  me :  I  am  not  only  witty  in  my- 
self but  the  cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men. ' '  There  are  Rosalind 
and  Touchstone,  Portia  and  Nerissa  and  Gratiano;  and,  in  one 
of  the  latest  plays,  Perdita,  a  vivid  incarnation  of  the  light  and 
color  and  sweetness  of  early  spring,  "Flora,  peering  in  April's 
front,"  and  Autolycus,  "littered  under  Mercury,  a  snapper-up 
of  unconsidered  trifles,"  "once,"  as  he  says,  "  a  servant  of  the 
prince,"  "then  a  process-server,  a  bailiff;  then  he  compassed  a 
motion  of  the  Prodigal  Son  and  married  a  tinker's  wife;  and 
having  flown  over  many  knavish  professions,  he  settled  only  in 
rogue. ' ' 

No  less  indicative  of  the  author's  exuberant  vitality  are  the 
reckless  volubility  of  almost  every  character,  the  piling  up  of 
fancy  upon  fancy,  of  jest  upon  jest,  the  long  embellishment  of 
humor  and  foolery  and  horseplay  for  no  other  reason  than  the 
delight  they  afford.  ' '  Come,  come, ' '  says  Miercutio  to  Benvolio, 
"thou  art  as  hot  a  Jack  in  thy  mood  as  any  in  Italy.  .  .  . 
Nay,  an  there  were  two  such,  we  should  have  none  shortly,  for 
one  would  kill  the  other.  Thou!  why,  thou  wilt  quarrel  with 
a  man  that  hath  a  hair  more  or  a  hair  less  in  his  beard  than 
thou  hast."  This  would  suffice  any  fancy  of  ordinary  luxuri- 
ance, but  to  Shakespeare 's  teeming  brain  it  is  only  a  beginning : 
"Thou  wilt  quarrel  with  a  man  for  cracking  nuts,  having  no 
other  reason  but  because  thou  hast  hazel  eyes.  What  eye  but 
such  an  eye  could  spy  out  such  a  quarrel?  Thy  head  is  as  full 
of  quarrels  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat,  and  yet  thy  head  hath 
been  beaten  as  addle  as  an  egg  for  quarreling.  Thou  hast 
quarreled  with  a  man  for  coughing  in  the  street,  because  he  hath 
wakened  thy  dog  that  hath  lain  asleep  in  the  sun.  Didst  thou 
not  fall  out  with  a  tailor  for  wearing  his  new  doublet  before 
Easter  ?  With  another  for  tying  his  new  shoes  with  old  ribands  ? 


4  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

And  yet  thou  wilt  tutor  me  from  quarreling. ' '  What  has  Queen 
Mab  to  do  with  the  action  of  the  play  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  f 
Nothing;  but  Mercutio  mentions  her,  and  before  anyone  can 
stop  him  he  has  poured  forth  fifty  lines  of  purest  fantasy: 

"She  is  the  fairies'  midwife,  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate  stone 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman — , ' ' 

and  so  he  goes  on  with  her  horses,  her  chariot,  her  charioteer, 
and  the  dreams  she  brings  as  she  gallops  night  by  night  through 
lovers'  brains,  o'er  courtiers'  knees,  ladies'  lips,  lawyers'  fin- 
gers, the  parson's  nose,  and  the  soldier's  neck.  "Peace,  peace, 
Mercutio," — interrupts  Romeo — "  peace!  Thou  talk'st  of  noth- 
ing." 

Whole  scenes  exist  for  no  other  reason  than  that  the  author's 
brain  is  teeming  with  situations  and  characters  and  humor  or 
infinite  jest.  "But,  Ned,  to  drive  away  the  time  till  Falstaff 
come,  I  prithee  do  thou  stand  in  some  by-room  while  I  question 
my  puny  drawer  [waiter]  to  what  end  he  gave  me  the  sugar; 
and  do  thou  never  leave  calling  'Francis,'  that  his  tale  to  me  may 
be  nothing  but  'Anon'  [Coming!]."  Then  follows  that  famous 
scene  of  purest  foolery.  To  drive  away  the  time,  indeed!  Say 
rather  to  permit  the  author,  that  reckless  spendthrift,  here  as 
elsewhere  to  throw  away  his  dramatic  material  with  both  hands, 
as  a  drunken  sailor  scatters  his  money.  No  other  writer  in  the 
whole  range  of  literature,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Fran- 
gois  Rabelais,  is  so  extravagant,  so  prodigal,  so  scornful  of  lit- 
erary economy,  or  makes  upon  his  audience  such  an  impression 
of  inexhaustible  vitality. 

Nature-s  of  such  abounding  vigor  are  rarely  distinguished  by 
delicacy  of  perception,  of  feeling,  or  of  utterance.  And  Shake- 
speare often  has  the  coarseness  of  both  thought  and  expression 
commonly  associated  with  big,  rough  men — horse-breeders,  coun- 
try-squires and  the  like — but  also,  as  everyone  remembers,  his 
plays  contain  a  thousand  delicacies  of  perception,  of  sentiment, 
and  of  expression, — notable  among  which  and  familiar  to  all 
are  the  lines  spoken  by  Othello,  as  he  approaches  his  dreadful 
self-imposed  task  of  killing  Desdemona : 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  5 

"It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul; 

Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars! 

It  is  the  cause.     Yet  I  '11  not  shed  her  blood, 

Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 

And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster, 

Yet  she  must  die,  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 

Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  light ; 

If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 

I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Thou  cunning 'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 

I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 

That  can  thy  light  relume.    When  I  have  plucked  the  rose, 

I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again, 

It  needs  must  wither :    I  '11  smell  it  on  the  tree. 

[Kisses  Tier.] 

0  balmy  breath,  that  does  almost  persuade 
Justice  to  break  her  sword!     One  more,  one  more, 
Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee, 
And  love  thee  after.     One  more,  and  this  the  last. ' ' 

Closely  related  to  this  delicacy  of  feeling  is  the  tenderness 
which  appears  in  many  phases  and  which  is  often  so  undramatic 
that  it  must  be  attributed  not  to  the  speaking  character  but  to 
the  author  himself.  You  will  recall  many  passages  of  sympathy 
with  birds  and  other  animals — the  classic  one  being  that  in  As 
You  Like  It,  in  which  not  only  the  melancholy  Jaque-s  but  even 
the  Duke  and  the  nameless  First  Lord  speak  of  the  sufferings 
of  the  stricken  deer  in  language  which  must  have  seemed  strong- 
ly sentimental  to  an  age  devoted  to  hunting.  That  this  was 
Shakespeare's  native  feeling  is  indicated  by  the  long  passage  in 
Venus  and  Adonis  describing  the  hare-hunt  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  hare — a  passage  recalling  in  its  spirit  the  later  lines 
addressed  by  Robert  Burns  to  a  field  mouse. 

The  sympathetic  unde-rstanding  displayed  in  such  passages  is 
doubtless  the  result  of  dramatic  realization  working  on  physi- 
cal senses  unusually  keen  and  powers  of  observation  unusually 
fine.  "Keenness  of  sight,  hearing,  and  smell  are  illustrated  on 


6  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

«very  page  of  the  plays.  Examples  of  keenness  of  sight  are  so 
numerous  that  one  hardly  knows  where  to  begin  or  end ;  but  one 
may  take  at  random  the  passage  in  The  Tempest  in  which  Cali- 
ban enumerates  the  riches  of  the  island — the  springs,  the  ber- 
ries, the  crabs,  the  jay's  nest,  the  nimble  marmosets,  the  clus- 
tering filberts — or  the  description  of  the  applauding  crowds  in 
Coriolanus,  or  the  spreading  of  the  news  of  Arthur's  death  in 
King  J*ohn: — 

" Young  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their  mouths; 
And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their  heads 
And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 
And  he  that  speaks  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist, 
Whilst  he  that  hears  makes  fearful  action 
With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 
I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer  thus, 
The  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool, 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news; 
Who  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand, 
Standing  on  slippers — which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet — 
Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French, 
That  were  embattailed  and  rank'd  in  Kent. 
Another  lean,  unwashed  artificer 
Cuts  off  his  tale  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death." 

, 

Sensitiveness  of  vision  and  images  of  form  and  color  drawn 
from  objects  of  all* sorts  we  have  come  to  expect  of  all  poets, 
and  most  poets  have  been  well  endowed  with  such  riches.  Sensi- 
tiveness to  sound  is  also  common,  but  besides  Shakespeare  I  can 
recall  no  one  but  Wordsworth  to  whose  imagination  sound  made 
so  constant  an  appeal.  Every  sound  of  the  audible  universe — 
loud  and  low,  sweet  and  harsh — seems  to  have  sprung  to  his 
thought  in  a  multitude  of  associations — the  big  church-bell  that 
swings  of  its  own  weight  after  the  ringers  have  ceased  to  pull 
it,  the  carmen  whistling  popular  tunes  on  the  London  streets, 
the  screeching  of  the  metal  as  the  workman  turned  a  brazen 
candlestick,  a  dry  whe-el  grating  on  its  axletree. 

It  is  curious  to  note  how  large  a  part  odors,  pleasant  and  un- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  7 

pleasant,  play  in  his  work.  He  seems  to  have  been  as  sensitive 
to  them  as  to  sounds;  and  indeed,  as  is  well  known,  the  two 
seem  to  have  had  similar  pyschological  effects  upon  him.  "That 
strain  again, ' '  says  the  Duke  in  Twelfth-Night, 

"That  strain  again!  it  had  a  dying  fall: 
Oh,  it  came  o  'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor." 

With  this  should  be  recalled  the  first  hundred  lines  of  Act  V, 
Scene  1  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice — wonderfully  interwoven  of 
moonlight  and  music  and  perfume  and  young  love. 

Shakespeare's  susceptibility  to  sweet  odors  is  shown  most  sur- 
prisingly in  a  passage  in  Macbeth.  Wishing  to  give  an  idea  of 
the  fine  situation  and  impressive  architecture  of  Macbeth 's  castle, 
he  does  so  by  means  of  a  conversation  between  Duncan  and 
Banquo  which  appeals  primarily  to  the  sense  of  smell: 

" Dun.     This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Ban.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet  does  approve 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here:  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Buttress,  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle. 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observ'd 
The  air  is  delicate." 

In  like  manner,  wishing  to  express  the  utmost  limit  of  bore- 
dom, Hbtspur  uses  a  figure  compounded  of  unpleasant  sounds 
and  unpleasant  odors.  He  says  of  Glendower  and  his  incessant 
talk: 

"Oh,  he  is  as  tedious 
As  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house:  I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlic  in  a  windmill,  far, 
Than  feed  on  cates  and  have  him  talk  to  me 
In  any  summerhouse  in  Christendom." 


8  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Whether  Shakespeare  approved  of  democratic  ideas  or  not, 
we  may  at  least  infer  that  what  he  found  most  offensive  about 
the  lower  classes  was  the  filth  and  unpleasant  odors.  Coriola- 
nus  says: 

"Bid  them  wash  their  faces 
And  keep  their  teeth  clean"; 

and  again,  addressing  the  mob  of  citizens1: 

"You  common  cry  of  curs!  whose  breath  I  hate 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air"; 

and  again  in  the  same  play  Menenius  expresses  his  deepest  con- 
tempt for  them  in  such  phrases  as  "the  breath  of  garlic  eaters"; 

"You  are  they 

That  made  the  air  unwholesome  when  you  cast 
Your  stinking,  greasy  caps  in  hooting  at 
Coriolanus'  exile." 

This  fastidiousness  is  not  confined  to  Shakespeare's  mature? 
years.  Notable  examples  of  it  may  be  found  in  so  early  a  play 
as  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  Had  it  been  a  conventional 
fastidiousness,  due  merely  to  training  and  association  with  men 
of  refinement,  he  would  probably  have  been  content,  as  most 
Elizabethans  were,  to  have  the  stenches  which  assailed  the  nose 
at  every  turn  overpowered  by  perfumes,  but  the  description  of 
the  perfumed  lord  whom  Hotspur  met  after  the  heat  of  the  bat- 
tle of  Holmedon,  and  Touchstone's  comments  on  civet  may  in- 
struct us  that  Shakespeare 's  taste  was  for  odors  that  were  clean 
as  well  as  sweet. 

Of  impressions  of  taste  and  touch  almost  no  use  is  made  in 
the  plays.  Only  a  very  few  passages  could  be  cited  showing  any 
keenness  of  these  senses  or  any  vivid  associations  -with  them. 
This  might  not  seem  strange  in  lyric  poetry — though  even  there 
one  recalls  in  other  poets  not  a  few  figures  from  touch  and  taste, 
as  in  Ben  Jonson's  The  Triumph  of  Charis: 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  9 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow, 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutch 'd  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver  ? 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  of  the  briar? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
Oh  so  white  !  oh  so  soft !  oh  so'  sweet  is  she ! 

If  a  man  is  to  become  a  great  creative  artist,  it  is  not  enough 
that  his  senses  and  powers  of  observation  should  be  keen  and 
extensive.  He  must  remember,  and  remember  vividly.  Words- 
worth,  to  be.  sure,  speaks  of  poetry  as  taking  its  origin  from  emo- 
tion recollected  in  tranquillity;  but  in  the  same  paragraph  he 
not  only  calls  it  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  emotions 
but  also  tells  how,  as  the  recollected  emotion  is  contemplated, 
the  tranquillity  disappears  and  an  emotion  akin  to  the  original 
one  is  born  in  the  poet's  mind.  No  one  will  be  disposed  to 
doubt  either  the  vividness  of  Shakespeare's  emotions  or  the 
tenacity  of  that  memory  which  seems  to  have  held  everything, 
from  a  stray  epithet  in  classical  mythology  to  the  look  of  the 
sham  Hercules  in  some  worm-eaten  tapestry  that  once  met  his 
eye.  For  my  part,  I  am  ready  to  believe  that  he  had  every 
kind  of  memory  known  to  the  modern  psychologist — visual, 
auditory,  muscular — for  I  am  confident  that  he  did  not  store 
up  in  neat  verbal  formulas,  ready  for  some  future  use,  his 
wealth  of  observations  of  man's  nature,  a  method  practiced  by 
Tennyson  and  many  other  writers.  He  rather  recalled,  by  a 
process  of  association,  when  he  was  composing  his  speeches, 
vivid  images  of  the  objects  which  he  was  writing  about,  with  all 
their  color,  their  sharpness  of  outline,  and  their  characteristic 
actions.  This  process,  which  I  call  visualization,  could  be  illus- 
trated from  every  page  of  his  work.  Indeed  in  any  description 
of  men  or  things  one  of  the  most  striking  features  Is  that  Shake- 
speare seems  to  describe  what  is  present  at  the  very  moment  of 
writing.  Many  of  the  passages  already  quoted  would  illustrate 


10  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

this  admirably,  but  we  may  take  a  brief  scene  drawn  110  doubt 
from  a  memory  of  his  youth  in  Gloucestershire : 

"Fuls.  Will  you  tell  me,  Master  Shallow,  how  to  choose  a 
man?  Care  I  for  the  limb,  the  thews,  the  stature,  bulk,  and  big 
assemblance  of  a  man  ?  Give  me  the  spirit,  Master  Shallow.  .  .  . 
Put  me  a  caliver  into  Wart's  hand,  Bardolph." 

This  is  done,  and  Wart  obviously  shows  no  notion  of  how  to 
use  it,  for  Shallow  cries: 

"He  is  not  his  craft's  master,  he  doth  not  do  it  right.  I  remem- 
ber at  Mile-end  Green,  when  I  lay  at  Clement's  Inn,  .... 
there  was  a  little  quiver  fellow,  and  a'  would  about  and  about, 
and  come  you  in  and  come  you  in;  'rah  tah  tah'  would  a'  say, 
'bounce'  would  a'  say,  and  away  again  would  a'  go,  and  again 
would  a'  come;  I  shall  ne'er  see  such  a  fellow!" 

Before  leaving  the  matter  of  Shakespeare's  native  endow- 
ments — which  might  well  occupy  us  all  day — we  shall  note  only 
one  more  feature,  but  that  one  of  uncommon  significance  for 
his  art.  He  possessed  in  singular  combination  freedom  and 
breadth  of  emotional  swing  together  with  an  unequalled  ca- 
pacity for  self-criticism,  for  ridiculing  the  very  emotions  to 
which  he  had  just  given  free  and  full  indulgence.  Love's  Labor's 
Lost  is  all  compact  of  this.  Every  emotion,  every  fancy,  every 
fad,  is  entertained  with  zest  and  enthusiasm,  and  each  in  turn  is 
heaped  with  ridicule  or  censure.  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  the  epitome 
of  passionate  and  tragic  love,  but  the  play  itself  contains  jests 
and  mockings  of  the  very  soul  of  love. 

That  Shakespeare  was  not  unfamiliar  with  tavern  scenes  and 
caroused  in  many  a  merry  party  at  the  Mermaid  may  be  inferred 
not  merely  .from  tradition  and  from  his  creation  of  Sir  John 
Falstaff  and  the  world  in  which  he  moved,  but  above  all  perhaps 
from  Sir  John 's  famous  apostrophe  to  the  virtues  of  sherry  wine : 

"A  good  sherris-sack  hath  a  two-fold  operation  in  it.  It 
ascends  me  into  the  brain ;  dries  me  there  all  the  foolish,  dull, 
and  crudy  vapors  which  environ  it :  makes  it  apprehensive,  quick, 
forgetive,  full  of  nimble,  fiery  and  delectable  shapes:  which  de- 
livered over  to  the  voice,  the  tongue,  which  is  the  birth,  becomes 
exoellent  wit, — "  and  so  on  through  a  dozen  nimble  and  de- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  11 

lectable  shapes  which,  we  shall  all  agree,  were  never  conceived  in 
the  brain  of  a  teetotaler.  Yet  despite  this  evidence  of  his  own 
susceptibility,  it  is  Shakespeare  who  of  set  purpose  creates  the 
episode  in  Othello  in  which  Cassio  is  disgraced  by  drunkenness; 
and  it  is  he  who  puts  into  the  mouth  of  this  same  Cassio  his  Ovvn 
condemnation:  ''Drunk!  and  speak  parrot!  and  squabble,  swag- 
ger, swear,  and  discourse  fustian  with  one 's  own  shadow !  0  thou 
invisible  spirit  of  wine!  if  thou  hast  no  name  to  be  known  by, 
let  us  call  thee  devil !"  And  it  is  Shakespeare  who,  in  play  after 
play,  with  no  dramatic  reason  or  excuse,  criticizes  his  fellow 
countrymen  for  that  heavy-headed  revel  which  makes  them  tra- 
duced and  taxed  of"  other  nations.  The  traditions  of  Shake- 
speare's later  life  and  of  his  death  hardly  allow  us  to  take  such 
expressions  as  the  utterances  of  a  reformed  drunkard.  We  may 
more  easily  credit  him  with  being — like  the  rest  of  us,  though 
in  a  higher  degree  and  with  more  vivid  sensations — one  who  feels 
the  attractions  of  the  sensual  temptations  of  life,  the  cakes  md 
the  ale,  but  is  none  the  less  responsive  to  the  ideal,  the  ethical, 
even  the  ascetic. 

If  we  now  attempt  to  discover  from  the  plays  the  main  in- 
terests and  concerns  of  their  author,  we  shall,  I  think,  find  them 
not  unlike  what  might  be  expected  of  a  man  with  the  native 
qualities  which  we  have  just  surveyed  so  sketchily  and  inade- 
quately. 

And  first,  we  may  state  positively  that  the  interests  which 
above  all  other  are  exploited  in  the  poems  and  in  the  plays 
down  to  a  rather  late  period  are  those  of  the  sportsman:  horses, 
dogs,  hunting,  hawking,  and,  in  a  less  degree,  fishing,  bowling, 
tennis,  fencing,  and  archery.  Most  of  these — especially  those 
that  predominate — were  in  the  Elizabethan  age  the  occupations 
of  gentlemen,  as  distinguished  from  the  common  people.  Bowl- 
ing and  tennis  were  more  or  less  open  to  men  of  all  ranks  of 
society,  as  taverns  had  public  bowling  greens  and  tennis  courts : 
archery  was  familiar  to  high  and  low,  but  had  long  been  urged 
upon  the  middle  and  lower  classes  for  reasons  of  state.  Angling 
was  not  yet  a  fine  art;  it  was  merely  fishing,  and  was  within 
the  scope  of  anyone  who  could  find  an  unprotected  stream  and 


2— S 


12  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

provide  a  hook  and  line — or,  failing  them,  knew  simpler  methods 
of  taking  fish.  In  the  light  of  Shakespeare's  preference  for 
other  sports,  his  slight  interest  in  this  is  not  surprising.  He  knew 
it,  as  he  knew  bear-baiting,  dice,  and  card  play,  but  if  we  may 
judge  from  the  evidence  of  the  plays,  he  cared  little  about  any 
of  these  things. 

With  horses,  dogs,  hunting,  and  hawking,  the  case  is  very 
different.  The  language  of  the  stables,  the  kennel,  and  the 
hunting  field  runs  through  all  the  works  from  Venus  and  Adonis 
to  Othello.  It  is  used  with  a  freedom  and  frequency  unintel- 
ligible except  from  a  sportsman,  and  occurs  under  all  conceivable 
circumstances  and  in  the  mouths  of  all  classes  and  conditions 
of  men  and  women.  Some  of  the  terms  and  expressions  are 
purely  general,  such  as  might  be  picked  up  by  any  casual  mem- 
ber of  polite  society;  others  are  so  technical  that  they  would 
be  expected  only  from  a  professional  or  a  skilled  amateur. 

The  language  of  the  stable  is  all  pervasive.  A  technical  in- 
terest in  the  qualities  of  horses,  their  breeding,  their  training, 
and  their  management  is  displayed  from  first  to  last.  Of  course 
there  were  then  in  existence  books  on  horses,  as  there  were 
books  on  dogs,  on  hunting,  on  hawking,  and  on  all  the  other  con- 
cerns of  a  gentleman ;  but  no  man  ever  became  saturated  with 
horse-talk,  as  Shakespeare  was,  by  reading  a  book  on  the  horse. 
In  the  plays  we  find  the  language  of  the  stable  appropriately 
enough  in  the  mouths  of  such  persons  as  Petruchio,  Biondello, 
Grumio,  Falstaff,  Nym,  Hotspur  and  the  Carriers;  but  what 
are  we  to  say  of  its  use  by  Touchstone,  Hamlet,  Rosalind,  Maria, 
Dogberry,  or  the  Fool  in  King  Lear?  For  technical  language 
let  us  hear  Biondello,  as  he  describes  the  fantastic  array  in 
which  Petruchio  came  to  fetch  his  bride:  "Why,  Petruchio  is 
coming,  in  a  new  hat  and  an  old  jerkin ;  a  pair  of  old  breeches 
that  have  been  thrice  turned ;  .  .  his  horse  hipped  with  an  old 
mothy  saddle  and  stirrups  of  no  kindred ;  besides,  possessed  with 
the  glanders  and  like  to  mose  in  the  chine;  troubled  with  the 
lampass,  infected  with  the  fashions,  full  of  windgalls,  sped  with 
spavins,  rayed  with  the  yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives,  stark 
spoiled  with  the  staggers,  begnawn  with  bots,  swayed  ,in  the 
back,  and  shoulder-shotten ;  near-legged  before ;  and  with  a  half- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  13 

checked  bit,  and  a  headstall  of  sheep's  leather,  which,  being  re- 
strained to  keep  him  from  stumbling,  hath  been  often  burst  and 
now  repaired  with  knots:  one  girth  six  times  pieced,  and  a 
woman's  crupper  of  velure,  which  hath  two  letters  of  her  name 
fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced  with  pack- 
thread. ' '  This  is  not  copied  from  a  horse-book :  it  is  the  copious 
extravagance  of  a  man  who  had  lived  with  horses  for  years. 
The  author's  fondness  for  dogs  and  knowledge  of  their  kinds, 
their  habits,  and  their  qualities  are  strikingly  displayed  in  Venus 
and  Adonis,  and  in  no  less  than  seventeen  plays;  and  there  are 
casual  undramatic  allusions  to  dogs  in  about  ten  other  plays. 
In  the  early  work  the  interest  is  that  of  a  sportsman  in  the 
qualities  of  hounds;  in  the  late,  merely  what  may  be  called  a 
recognition  of  dogs  as  members  of  the  social  organization.  Com- 
pare Theseus'  summary  of  the  points  of  his  hounds  with  Lear's 
querulous  complaint  of. the  ingratitude  of  his  pets  and  Edgar's 
railing  at  dogs  of  all  breeds.  On  the  one  hand,  we  have : 

The.     My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew  'd,  so  sanded,  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew; 
Crook-kneed,  and  dew-lapp  'd  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match 'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  holla 'd  to,  nor  cheer 'd  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  The-ssaly. 
Judge  when   you  hear. 

On  the  other : 

"The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me. 
Edgar.    Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  them. 
Avaunt,  you  curs ! 
Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white, 
Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite ; 
Mastiff,  greyhound,  mongrel  grim, 
Hlound  or  spaniel,  brach  or  lym, 
Or  bob-tail  tyke  or  trundle-tail ; 
Tom  will  make  them  weep  and  wail: 
For,  with  throwing  thus  my  head, 
Dogs  leap  the  hatch  and  all  are  fled." 


14  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Except  the  brief  hue  and  cry  with  hunting  dogs  in  The  Tem- 
pest, there  is,  after  Lear,  not  a  single  striking  reference  to  dogs. 
The  few  allusions  that  occur  are  casual  and  often  contemptuous. 
This  is  the  more  remarkable  as  the  hunting  scene  in  Cymbeline 
gives  every  opportunity  for  their  effective  use. 

Cats  are  rarely  mentioned  and  always  with  indifference  except 
as  to  their  mousing  ability.  The  epithet ' '  cat ' '  is  used  to  express 
extreme  contempt  for  a  man;  and  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
the  phenomenon  of  cat  fear  is  recognized. 

Hunting  terms  are  found  in  one  poem  and  twenty-four  plays. 
They  are  of  the  most  varied  character,  ranging  from  elaborated 
narratives  and  descriptions  to  casual  figures  and  images,  and 
from  technical  expressions  to  utterances  of  sympathy  for  the 
hunted  animals.  Mbst  of  the  references  are  to  the  nobler  sports 
of  hunting  the  deer  and  the  hare,  but  there  are  many  scattered 
allusions  to  fox-hunting — then  a  less  systematized  and  less  digni- 
fied branch — and  even  to  the  disreputable  delights  of  poaching. 
To  a  vast  number  of  the  characters  who  use  hunting  terms  the 
use  of  them  is  naturally  entirely  appropriate — as,  for  example, 
the  courtiers  and  keepers  of  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  Falstaff,  the 
Duke  in  As  Yvu  Like  It,  Jaques,  Orlando,  Rosalind,  Benedick, 
Ford,  Page,  Shallow,  Sir  Toby,  Fabyan  and  many  others — but 
the  appropriateness  to  Titus  Andronicus,  Aufidius,  Scarus,  Adri- 
ana,  Dromio,  Ulysses,  lago,  Roderigo,  and  Prospero  is  not  very 
clear.  After  the  date  of  Othello,  the  references,  as  we  shall  see 
later,  are  few  and  slight.  Specific  references  to  hawking,  the 
sport  par  excellence  of  the  nobility,  are  fairly  common  and 
usually  very  technical. 

All  these  matters  have  been  studied  in  great  detail  and  with 
great  enthusiasm  by  Mr.  D.  HI.  Mjadden  in  his  volume  entitled 
"The  Diary  of  Master  William  Silence."  Mr.  Madden  is  not 
only  convinced  that  the  author  of  the  plays  spent  a  number  of 
his  youthful  years  in  these  noble  sports,  but  is  able  to  produce 
several  very  convincing  arguments  to  prove  that  the  scenes  of 
this  early  training  were  Warwickshire  and  that  part  of  Glouces- 
tershire which  lies  among  the  Cotswold  hills  and  which  was 
inhabited  in  the  sixteenth  century  by  Justice  Silence  and  his 
friends,  Shallow  and  Slender  and  his  humbler  neighbors,  William 


Memorial  Volume  to  Sliakespeare  and  Harvey  15 

Visor  of  Woncot,  Clement  Perkes  of  the  Hill,  Goodman  Double 
of  Dursley,  and  Mouldy,  Shadow,  and  Wart. 

Into  harmony  with  this  view  may  be  brought  not  only  the 
general  acquaintance  with  outdoor  life  and  farm  matters — such 
as  might  be  expected  of  any  one  who  in  the  sixteenth  century 
had  spent  his  boyhood  in  the  country  or  in  a  country  village — but 
also  such  specific  facts  as  the  knowledge  of  sheep  raising,  the 
principal  industry  of  the  Cotswold  district  of  Gloucestershire; 
the  assignment  of  the  sheep-shearing  of  The  Winter's  Tale  to  a 
date  in  the  summer  too  late  for  a  low  country  like  that  around 
Stratford  but  entirely  appropriate  for  the  Cotswold  hill  region ; 
and  the  rather  striking  though  trivial  circumstance  of  the  sowing 
of  the  headland  with  red  wheat,  mentioned  in  2  Henry  IV — a 
practice  which  seems  to  be  confined,  in  the  late  summer,  to  this 
sole  district  of  England. 

Mr.  Madden  even  argues — and  to  my  mind  convincingly — that 
when  Queen  Elizabeth  commanded  Shakespeare  to  produce  in 
two  weeks  a  play  showing  Falstaff  in  love,  the  ingenious  author 
supplied  much  of  the  atmosphere  and  many  of  the  characters 
of  this  impromptu  by  transferring  bodily  to  the  purlieus  of 
Windsor  the  little  group  of  Gloucestershire  worthies  whom  Fal- 
staff had — to  our  eternal  advantage — so  unnecessarily  visited  in 
the  play  that  had  just  preceded.  With  this  demonstration,  Mr. 
Madden  seems  to  have  disposed  for  a  time  of  the  deer -stealing 
tradition  and  Shakespeare's  flight  from  Stratford — not  that  the 
proof  that  Shakespeare  was  a  poacher  in  his  youth  would  put 
him  morally  lower  in  our  estimation  than  the  many  worthy 
citizens  who  at  one  time  in  their  lives  have  been  chased  by  irate 
owners  of  apple-orchards  and  watermelon  patches,  but  merely 
because  we  are  friendly  to  the  truth. 

If  Shakespeare  had  been  merely  a  sportsman,  he  would  of 
course  never  have  been  the  author  of  the  plays  we  know.  But 
we  have  already  seen  that  he  was  rich  in  many  native  endowments 
of  far  different  quality. 

Of  these  the  most  striking  are  perhaps  his  endowments  for  I 
music  and  art.    No  one  can  have  failed  to  note  the  large  extent 
to  which  music  figures  in  the  plays.    Not  only  are  about  a  huii- 


16  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

dred  songs  introduced  or  mentioned,  not  only  are  the  whining 
tunes  of  popular  ballads  characterized  contemptuously,  not  only  is 
a  general  acquaintance  with  the  terminology  of  music  displayed, 
but  allusions  to  music  meet  one  at  every  turn,  many  long  and 
beautiful  passages  are  devoted  to  celebrating  the  charms  and  the 
influence  of  music,  and  characters  of  the  most  varied  intelligence 
and  training  are  made  to  exhibit  such  a  knowledge  of  musical 
technique  as  could  fairly  be  expected  only  of  an  accomplished 
musician.  The  aged  John  of  Gaunt  in  Richard  II  says: 

"Oh,  but  they  say  the  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention  like  deep  harmony." 

. 
Says  Mercutio  of  Tybalt's  swordplay: 

1  'He  fights  as  you  sing  prick-song,  keeps  time,  distance  and 
proportion ;  rests  me  his  minim  rest — one,  two,  and  the  third  in 
your  bosom." 

"Will  you  play  upon  this  pipe?"  says  Hamlet  to  Guildenstern. 

"My  lord,  I  cannot." 

"I  do  beseech  you." 

' '  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. ' ' 

"  'Tis  as  easy  as  lying.  Govern  these  ventages  with  your  fin- 
ger and  thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  will 
discourse  most  eloquent  music.  Look  you,  these  are  the  stops." 

"But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any  utterance  of  har- 
mony. .  .  ." 

"Why  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a  thing  you  make  of  me. 
You  would  play  upon  me ;  you  would  know  my  stops ;  you  would 
pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery;  you  would  sound  me  from 
my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  my  compass;  and  there  is  much 
music,  excellent  voice,  in  this  little  pipe,  yet  cannot  you  make 
it  speak." 

The  most  specific  references  are  to  singing  and  to  instruments 
used  for  accompanying  the  voice.  It  is  true  that  these  are  the 
times  in  which  the  development  of  music  had  reached  its  highest 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  17 

point  in  Elizabethan  England,  but  the  form  of  some  of  the 
references  makes  it  practically  certain  that  Shakespeare  himself 
sang — or  thought  he  sang — and  knew  enough  of  some  instru- 
ment, the  lute  perhaps,  to  play  accompaniments: 

"For  government,   though   high   and  low   and  lower, 
Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  consent, 
Congreeing  in  a  full  and  natural  close, 
Like  music." 

"I  did  but  tell  her  she  mistook  her  frets, 
And  bowed  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering." 

The  passage  which  perhaps  shows  most  vividly  the  author's 
technical  familiarity  with  singing  is  in  the  repartee  between  Julia 
and  Lucetta  in  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  I  quote  it,  italicizing 
the  technical  terms : 

Jul.     Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rime, 
Luc.    That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune : 

Give  me  a  note :  your  ladyship  can  set. 
Jul.    As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible; 

Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  'Light  o'  Love.' 
Luc.    It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 
Jul.    Heavy!  belike  it  hath  some  burden,  then? 
Luc.     Ay;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you  sing  it. 
Jul.     And  why  not  you? 

Jul.  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.     Let's  see   your   song    [taking   the   letter].     How   now;, 

minion ! 
Luc      Keep  time  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out: 

And  yet  methinks,  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 
Jul.     You  do  not  ? 

Luc.  No  madam ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

Jul.     You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 
Luc.  Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat' 

And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant:- 

There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 
Jul.     The  mean  is  drown' d  with  your  unruly  b'ass."' 


18  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

It  may  even  be  suspected  that  the  elaborateness  of  Hortensio  's 
technique  in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew — if  indeed  it  is  Shake- 
speare's — is  due  to  the  newness  of  his  technical  knowledge  of 
music  and  his  consequent  pride  in  it. 

But  so  much  is  known  of  this  matter,  and  the  celebrated  pas- 
sages on  music  are  so  familiar,  that  we  need  not  dwell  upon  it 
further,  except  to  note  that,  like  sport,  music  was  especially  af- 
fected by  the  upper  classes. 

The  interest  in  art  and  the  technical  knowledge  of  it  mani- 
fested by  the  author  of  the  plays  have  attracted  less  attention, 
probably  because  most  of  the  allusions  are  casual  or  figurative. 
Allusions  to  art  occur  in  fourteen  plays,  in  Venus  and  Adonis, 
Lucrece,  and  one  sonnet;  and  only  once — in  The  Winter's  Tale — 
is  the  use  of  art  topics  motived  by  the  dramatic  situation.  The 
iirst  scene  of  Timon  of  Athens  is  largely  occupied,  as  everyone 
knows,  with  an  elaborate  and  rather  technical  discussion  of  the 
relations  of  painting  and  poetry ;  but  the  most  remarkable  docu< 
mentation  of  Shakespear.e's  interest  in  painting  and  knowledge 
of  it  is  found  in  The  Rape  of  Lucrece.  Two  hundred  lines — near- 
ly one-ninth  of  the  poem — are  devoted  to  the  detailed  description 
of  a  picture  of  the  Siege  of  Troy.  No  motive  for  the  introduction 
of  the  picture  can  be  given,  unless  it  is  alleged  that  the  poet  must 
In  some  way  indicate  the  passage  of  time  before  Collatine  can 
obey  the  summons ;  but  even  then  the  choice  of  a  picture  to  en- 
gage the  attention  of  Lucrece  during  this  time  becomes  signifi- 
cant. 

The  description  of  this  picture  deserves  attention  in  many 
ways.  Not  only  is  the  description  very  detailed,  but  the  details 
are  not  such  as  would  impress  the  ordinary  gazer  at  a  picture. 
They  may  be  the  impressions  of  an  absolutely  naive  vision  which 
has  never  before  been  confronted  by  a  picture,  or  they  may  rep- 
resent what  is  seen  by  the  trained  eye  of  the  artist,  which  has 
recovered  its  naive  power,  its  capacity  to  see  only  what  is  actually 
on  the  canvass,  and  not,  as  ordinary  eyes  do,  what  the  painter 
wishes  to  imply  and  suggest. 

I  cannot  find  that  any  English  artist  ever  painted  such  a 
picture,  but  the  combination  of  large  masses  with  infinite  indi- 
vidual detail  recalls  the  work  of  certain  Italian  painters  of  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  19 

fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  for  example  Giulio  Romano, 
the  only  artist  named  in  the  plays  or  poems.  There  are,  indeed, 
grounds  for  believing  that  the  author  had  Giulio 's  work  in 
mind;  but  the  discussion  of  this  problem  is  too  important  to  be 
a  side-issue  in  the  present  inquiry. 

Eeturning  to  the  description,  note  the  sweep  of  vision  and 
the  detail : 

'  *  There  might  you  see  the  laboring  pioneer, 
Begrimed  with  sweat  and  smeared  all  with  dust ; 
And  from  the  towers  of  Troy  there  would  appear 
The  very  eyes  of  men,  through  loopholes  thrust, 
Gazing  upon  the  Greeks.     .     .     . 

"There  pleading  might  you  see  grave  Nestor  stand, 

As  'twere  encouraging  the  Greeks  to  fight; 

Making  such  sober  action  with  his  hand 

That  it  beguil'd  attention,  charm 'd  the  sight: 

In  speech  it  seem'd  his  beard,  all  silver  white, 

Wagg'd  up  and  down,  and  from  his  lips  did  fly 

Thin  winding  breath,  which  purl'd  up  to  the  sky. 

"  About  him  were  a  press  of  eager  faces, 
Which  seem  'd  to  swallow  up  his  sound  advice ; 
All  jointly  listening,  but  with  several  graces, 
As  if  some  mermaid  did  their  ears  entice, 
Some  high,  some  low,  the  painter  was  so  nice ; 
The  scalps  of  many,  almost  hid  behind, 
To  hump  up  higher  seem  'd,  to  mark  the  mind. ' ' 

If  this  is  not  sufficiently  in  the  manner  of  the  early  Renais- 
sance painters,  note  the  following  details : 

"Here  one  man's  hand  lean'd  on  another's  head, 
His  nose  being  shadow 'd.  by  his  neighbor's  ear; 
Hlere  one,  being  throng 'd,  bears  back,  all  boll'n  and  red; 
Another,  smother 'd,  seems  to  pelt  and  swear. 


20  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

For  such  imaginary  work  was  there; 
Conceit  deceitful,  so  compact,  so  kind, 
That  for  Achilles '  image  stood  his  spear,  t 
Grip  'd  in  an  unseen  hand ;  himself,  behind, 
Was  left  unseen,  save  to  the  eye  of  mind: 
A  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  a  leg,  a  head, 
Stood  for  the  whole,  to  be  imagined. ' ' 

Is  this  the  description  of  a  picture  which  our  author  had  seen 
in  some  great  house  in  England  or  Italy  ?  Or  is  it  his  own  device, 
his  own  vision  of  what  some  painter  might  put  into  a  picture  of 
Troy?  In  either  event,  it  betrays  the  closest  observation  of  the 
methods  of  Renaissance  painting  in  general  composition  and 
individual  detail;  and  tedious  as  so  much  quotation  may  have 
been,  it  seemed  necessary  to  bring  before  you  this,  significant 
passage  from  a  neglected  poem. 

In  general,  the  allusions  to  art,  though  brief  and  scattered, 
suggest  something  more  than  the  interest  of  the  critic ;  they  sug- 
gest the  attitude  of  one  who  knew  the  feeling  of  the  brush  in  the 
hand  and  the  application  of  color.  This  is  far  from  saying  that 
Shakespeare  was  an  artist  or  ever  had  any  technical  training; 
but  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  fact — especially  characteristic  of 
the  period  of  the  Renaissance — that  a  richly  endowed  nature 
often  seeks  expression  through  all  the  kindred  arts  of  music, 
poetry,  and  painting.  But  the  whole  subject  of  the  art  references 
should  be  studied  by  one  who  understands  the  technicalities  of 
painting. 

With  the  passages  which  indicate  that  the  author  was  an  actor, 
or  at  least  was  keenly  interested  in  the  actor's  art,  I  will  not  de- 
tain you.  The  most  important  of  these  passages — those  in  As 
Ton  Like  It,  in  Hamlet,  and  in  Troilus  and  Cressida — are  fa- 
miliar to  everyone.  Allusions  of  this  nature  begin  in  King  John 
and  continue  to  Antony  and  Cleopatra  and  The  Winter's  Tale; 
but,  as  compared  with  the  allusions  to  sport,  they  are  few  in 
number,  as  if  the  author  were  a  little  shy  of  " talking  shop." 

Phrases  and  figures  from  two  fields  of  human — or  inhu- 
man— thought  occur  in  such  numbers  in  the  plays  as  to  have 
suggested  that  the  author  was  a  specialist  in  each;  I  mean 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  21 

the  field  of  law  and  that  of  medicine.  Was  Shakespeare  a  learned 
lawyer?  With  due  deference  to  Lord  Campbell,  I  am  con- 
vinced he  was  not.  Was  he  a  skilled  physician?  With  due 
deference  to  Drs.  Bucknill  and  Orville  W.  Owen,  I  am  confi- 
dent that  he  was  .not.  That  he  had  some  knowledge  of  both  law 
and  medicine  cannot  be  denied.  But  it  may  be  safely  asserted 
that  in  Elizabethan  England  every  man  at  some  time  in  his  life 
became  ill  and  went  to  law.  The  law  that  Shakespeare  knew  is 
perfectly  accounted  for  by  the  suits — mainly  about  land — ii^ 
which  his  father  and  he  himself  were  involved  and  by  the  fact 
that  in  such  a  town  as  Stratford  the  most  exciting  entertainment 
an  ambitious  boy  could  find  was  a  trial  at  court  in  which  dis- 
tinguished lawyers  contended.  The  medicine  that  he  knew  was 
either  such  as  was  practiced  by  his  mother  and  his  wife,  or  such 
as  he  might  as  a  boy  have  read  in  the  garret  in  the  cyclopedia 
of  family  medicine  in  vogue  in  his  day — say  Batman's  version  of 
Bartholomaeus  Anglicus.  That  the  blood  "visited"  the  heart 
was  no  anticipation  of  Harvey's  discovery;  that  "the  sovereign 'st 
thing  on  earth  was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bruise"  involved 
the  same  skill  in  materia  medica  as  is  today  involved  in  pre- 
scribing Sloan's  Liniment  or  St.  Jacob's  Oil  for  the  same  ail- 
ment. 

Shakespeare  was  not  a  bookish  man.  I  will  not  say  that  he 
did  not  derive  much  from  books;  yet  his  debt  to  them  shows 
rather  that  he  read  comparatively  few  but  read  them  with  eager 
interest  and  an  unfailing  memory  than  that  he  read  many.  You 
may  cite  the  list  Dr.  Anders  gives  of  books  that  he  knew,  but  the 
length  of  this  list  does  not  shake  my  opinion.  You  yourself — 
whether  a  bookman  or  not — probably  read  as  many  books  a  year 
as  Anders  can  list  for  Shakespeare.'s  whole  life.  If  it  has  taken 
scholars  many  years  to  trace  all  his  bookish  borrowings  to  their 
sources,  this  also  is  not  against  my  contention  that  Shakespeare 
was  not  a  bookish  man.  If  a  honey  bee  should  fly  over  a  field  of 
clover  and  leave  his  sign  manual  on  every  clover  head  from 
which  he  sipped  his  honey,  it  would  take  a  diligent  "research 
man"  many  years  to  list  the  sources  of  the  honey,  even  if  the  bee 
had  visited  only  a  hundred  clover  heads.  Shakespeare 's  classical 
learning  and  his  knowledge  of  foreign  literatures  are  not  those 


22  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

of  a  scholar  but  those  of  a  man  possessed  of  quick  intelligence, 
boundless  curiosity,  and  a  memory  tenacious  of  everything  that 
engaged  his  interest. 

Shall  we  inquire  whether  the  author  of  the  plays  was  a-pro- 
testant  or  a  papist,  a  democrat  or  a  conservative?  Articles  and 
books  have  been  written  on  these  questions,  but  they  have  little 
bearing  on  our  present  inquiry.  It  is,  however,  possible,  I  be- 
lieve, to  show  a  gradual  deepening  of  the  author's  thought  about 
life,  from  facile  and  trivial  epigrams,  through  a  period  of  some- 
what cynical  worldly  wisdom,  to  a  sense  of  the  mystery  of  life; 
but  this  topic  we  may  leave  for  another  inquirer  or  another  oc- 
casion. 

A  friend  who  is  a  connoisseur  in  children  insists  that  I  shall 
not  blink  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  knew  very  little  about 
children  and  except  for  sentimental  purposes  cared  less.  In 
little  girls  he  shows  scant  interest;  Baby  Juliet  is  more  sympa- 
thetically treated  by  Brooke.  All  the  boys  introduced  for  dra- 
matic purposes — the  young  princes  and  Clarence's  son  in  Rich- 
ard HI,  Moth,  Prince  Arthur,  Macduff's  son,  the  son  of  Cori- 
olanus,  Mamilius — are  of  much  the  same  type,  pert  and  older 
than  their  years.  The  slight  sketch  of  the  stolid  William  strug- 
gling with  Latin  grammar  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
which  has  no  dramatic  purpose,  is  the  most  natural  portrait  of 
a  boy  in  the  plays,  and  reads  like  an  amused  reminiscence  of 
the  author's  school  days. 

One  shrewd  passing  remark  by  Beatrice  shows  indeed  keen 
observation,  but  scarcely  love,  of  children*:  " — like  my  lady's 
eldest  son,  evermore  tattling." 

The  changes  in  the  kinds  of  subjects  most  often  referred  to 
casually  and  most  often  drawn  upon  for  metaphors,  compari- 
sons, and  other  figures  of  speech  are  of  importance  for  two  rea- 
sons. In  the  first  place,  the  fact  that  there  are  such  changes, 
conforming  roughly  to  the  order  in  which  the  plays  were  prob- 
ably written,  proves  that  the  method  of  the  dramatist  was  not 
the  impersonal,  objective,  inhuman  method  it  is  so  commonly 
represented  as  being,  and  that  interests  which  predominate  in 
the  plays  may  safely  be  assumed  to  have  predominated  at  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  23 

same  time  in  the  thoughts  of  the  dramatist.  He  wrote  about 
horses  and  hounds  and  hawks  and  music  and  painting,  not  mere- 
ly because  some  people  liked  such  things,  but  because  his  own 
thoughts  were  at  the  time  full  of  them.  In  the  second  place,  the 
succession  of  interests  in  the  .plays  may  inform  us  primarily  of 
the  succession  of  interests  in  the  life  of  the  dramatist,,  and  sec- 
ondarily may  be  used  in  connection  with  the  life  records  to  test 
whether  the  author  of  the  plays  can  have  been  the  actor  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  who  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  who 
after  a  notable  career  in  London  retired  to  Stratford  to  lead  the 
life  of  a  well-to-do  citizen  and  to  die  there.  In  both  these  re- 
spects it  is  worthy  of  attention  that  outdoor  interests  continue 
throughout  the  plays,  but  with  a  change  of  direction  and  form. 
The  interest  in  limiting  and  hawking,  of  which  the  early  plays 
are  full,  almost  disappears  after  Othello  (1604).  Horses  are 
of  interest  from  first  to  last,  but  the  dogs  of  the  early  plays  are 
hunting  dogs,  hounds,  and  such  like,  while  in  Lear  (1606)  and 
later  plays  the  few  dogs  that  are  mentioned  are  either  house 
dogs  or  hounds  that  are  off  duty,  as  it  were.  Archery  is  often 
mentioned  in  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  but  the  allusions  gradually  fall 
off  and  after  Hamlet  there  are  perhaps  only  three.  Fencing 
seems  to  have  been  confined  practically  to  the  period  from  Romeo 
and  Juliet  to  Hamlet.  Fishing,  which  figures  comparatively 
little  at  any  time,  comes  in  with  The  Merchant  of  Venice  and 
increases  slightly  as  time  goes  on.  Agricultural  phrases  and 
figures  are  used  practically  throughout  the  plays  and  by  persons 
in  all  walks  of  life,  but  after  Shakespeare  began  to  form  an 
estate  at  Stratford  and  especially  after  his  purchase  of  one  hun- 
dred and  seven  acres  of  land  in  1602 — or  shall  we  say,  from 
and  after  Troilus  and  Cressida? — such  matters  as  gardening, 
grafting,  pruning,  transplanting,  plowing,  appear  frequently; 
while,  curiously  enough,  Coriolanus  contains  a  number  of  allu- 
sions to  the  work  of  the  miller. 

Of  the  changes  in  power  displayed  by  the  plays  I  shall  say 
little.  In  the  first  place,  because  it  is  too  large  a  topic  to  form 
a  mere  paragraph  in  another  subject.  In  the  second  place,  I 
have  just  seen  the  title  of  Professor  Wendell's  address  of  to- 


24  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

morrow,  and  it  suggests  that  he  will  treat  this  topic  fully.  But, 
for  the  purposes  of  this  discussion,  I  must  remind  you  that  the 
plays  actually  do  show  changes  in  tone  and  in  power  which  can- 
not be  without  significance  in  regard  to  the  author  himself.  We 
know  that  the  early  plays  were  partly  apprentice  work  in  re- 
touching and  revising  old  plays,  and  partly  somewhat  tentative 
and  timid  but  still  independent  experiments  in  lines  already 
pursued  by  other  men;  that  the  time  before  1600  was  the  time 
of  rich  productiveness — counting  twenty-three  plays  for  a 
period  of  ten  years  or  little  more ;  that  from  1600  to  1606  wa& 
the  period  of  the  greatest  and  most  serious  plays.  Only  six 
plays  were  produced  in  these  six  years,  but  all  are  concerned 
with  the  most  serious  problems  of  life,  all  are  marked  by  a  tone 
which  approaches  and  often  reaches  pessimism;  and  all  possess 
an  intensity  of  conception  and  phrasing  elsewhere  unexampled. 
The  plays  in  question  need  only  be  named  to  recall  their  prob- 
lems and  their  mode  of  treatment :  Measure  for  Measure,  Ham- 
let, Troilus  and  Cressida,  Othello,  Macbeth,  and  King  Lear. 

From  1606  to  1609  there  comes  a  lapse,  not  merely  of  activity, 
but  of  power.  These  years  give  us  only  Timon  of  Athens  and 
Pericles,  both  written  in  collaboration  and  both  containing  even 
in  their  best  passages  only  faint  or  sullen  gleams  of  the  ancient 
magical  fire. 

From  1609  to  1612  or  1613  we  have  a  sort  of  rekindling  of 
energy  and  as  a  result  six  plays:  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Cori- 
olanus,  The  Tempest,  The  Winter's  Tale,  Cymbeline,  and  part 
of  Henry  VIII.  All  of  these  either  repeat  ancient  themes  or  are 
imitations  of  current  successes,  and  the  only  one  which  shows 
the  old  power  of  creating  vital  human  figures  is  Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra. In  all  the  other  plays  the  dramatis  personae  are  for  the 
most  part  either  not  new  or  not  human.  Leontes  is  a  faded 
Othello,  Perdita  a  resuscitated  Kosalind;  Ferdinand  and  Mi- 
randa are  sweet  but  thin  and  bloodless  abstractions  of  forgot- 
ten youth,  and  Prospero  exists  in  our  imagination  and  memo- 
ries mainly  because  he  buried  his  books  deeper  than  ever  plummet 
sounded  and  spoke  those  unforgettable  lines  about  the  insubstan- 
tiality  of  material  things: 

' '  We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  25 

I  have  tried  thus  far  to  set  before  you  a  few  of  the  most  strik- 
ing facts  of  personality — not  a  tithe  of  the  whole  evidence — 
evinced  in  the  body  of  work  which  is,  as  'all  judgments  agree, 
the  most  wonderful  produced  as  yet  by  any  mind.  Is  it  possi- 
ble that  such  a  brain  belonged  to  the  man  of  Stratford?  Let 
us  briefly  compare  the  recorded  facts  and  traditions  of  his 
career  with  the  testimony  that,  as  we  have  seen,  is  embodied  in 
the  plays  and  poems.' 

The  man,  William  Shakespeare,  came  of  farming  stock  and 
was  born  and  lived  as  boy  and  youth  in  a  country  village. 
Hbw  could  it  have  been  otherwise  with  the  dramatist  who  in 
speaking  of  fair  weather  friends  says  that  ''they  will  out  of 
their  burrows,  like  conies  after  rain"?  So  casual  an  allusion 
could  have  grown  only  out  of  an  experience  so  familiar  that  it 
had  come  to  be  a  mode  of  thinking. 

Ben  Jonson  says  that  his  friend  Shakespeare  was  lacking  in 
education ;  tradition  points  to  the  Stratford  grammar  school  as 
the  place  where  he  learned  "small  Latin  and  less  Greek";  the 
plays  are  not  merely — for  an  age  that  reveled  in  classical  cul- 
ture— unscholastic,  but  reveal  the  practical  man's  contempt  for 
bookishness. 

Tradition  and  the  known  facts  of  Shakespeare's  marriage  at- 
test a  wild  youth,  such  as  the  old  shepherd  de-scribes  in  The 
Winter's  Tale:  "I  would  there  were  no  age  between  sixteen 
and  three-and-twenty,  or  that  youth  would  sleep  out  the  rest: 
for  there  is  nothing  in  the  between  but  getting  wenches  with 
child,  wronging  the  ancientry,  stealing,  fighting  [Horns]  — 
Hark  you  now !  Would  any  but  these  boiled  brains  of  nineteen 
and  two-and-twenty  hunt  this  weather?"  As  the  passage  is 
totally  unwarranted  by  dramatic  purpose,  it  is  strongly  sugges- 
tive of  personal  reminiscence. 

In  the  Gloucestershire  town  of  Dursley,  in  the  Cotswolds, 
there  is  a  belief  held  from  time  immemorial  that  Shakespeare 
spent  part  of  his  youth  there ;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  a  family  of 
Shakespeares  lived  in  that  place.  You  will  remember  that  in 
Richard  II  and  in  2  Henry  IV  the  dramatist  went  out  of  his 
way  to  bring  in  these  Gloucestershire  wilds  and  their  inhabi- 
tants. For  what  possible  reason  except  his  own  abiding  interest 
in  them? 


26  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

The  facts  show  that  Shakespeare  early  shook  off  provincial- 
ism and  domestic  ties  and  worked  out  a  successful  career;  and 
the  dramatist,  late  in  life,  remembers  how 

"     ....     the  spirit  of  a  youth 
That  means  to  be  of  note,  begins  betimes." 

The  recorded  facts  deal  with  the  career  of  the  actor-manager 
who  expresses  at  length  in  Hamlet  views  on  contemporary 
drama,  methods  of  acting,  and  the  public  taste. 

Both  facts  and  tradition  show  that  Shakespeare  had  the 
friendly  patronage  of  the  Earls  of  Southampton,  and  Essex. 
The  plays  and  poems  reveal  decided  interest  in  the  pursuits  of 
the  gentleman,  and  complimentary  allusions  to  both  these  noble- 
men are  not  wanting. 

The  records  show  that  Shakespeare  lost  his  son  Hamriet,  eleven 
years  old,  in  1596.  Whether  or  not  the  grief  of  Constance  at 
the  loss  of  her  son  was  added  to  King  Jdhn  after  that  experience, 
we  find  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  written  not  long  after 
Shakespeare's  own  loss,  the  dramatist  expressing  with  an  in- 
tensity, not  in  keeping  with  a  comedy,  a  father's  grief  for  the 
supposed  death  of  a  child.  Again,  tradition  quotes  Shake- 
speare's father  as  saying  that  "Will  was  a  good  son";  and  the 
play  of  Hamlet,  which  appeared  immediately  after  John  Shake- 
speare's death,  emphasizes  far  more  than  the  source  of  the  plot 
warrants  the  affection  of  a  son  for  a  father. 

The  records  show  the  acquisition  of  landed  property  and  the 
retirement  from  the  stage  of  the  actor-manager;  and  the-  dra- 
matists's  later  plays  show  increased  interest  in  agriculture,  and 
gardening,  and  sheep-breeding. 

The  brief  records  of  Shakespeare's  later  years  are  of  money 
matters  and  of  lawsuits  connected  with  them.  The  plays  are 
few  in  number,  show  a  falling-off  of  power,  and  an  atmosphere 
of  pessimism  and  gloom.  The  last  tradition  told  of  him  is  that 
he  died  as  the  result  of  a  drinking  bout. 

What  are  we  to  infer  from  all  this? 

It  is  not  impossible — so  much  only  is  it  safe  to  say — not  im- 
possible that  both  records  and  plays  point  to  one  conclusion, 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  27 

the  exhaustion  of  the  exuberant  vitality  of  early  life  and  the 
consequent  inroads  of  a  hypersensitive  spirit  upon  the  weak- 
ened body,  resulting  in  premature  loss  of  power  and  illness 
that  interfered  with  outdoor  interests  and  a;  active  life.  And  in 
that  case,  the  lawsuits  that  have  so  trouble^  .dealistic  critics  are 
a  mere  sign  of  the  deeper  irritation  that 

"Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit,  and  in  such  cases 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things." 

Hiow  this  may  have  be-en,  perhaps  we  shall  never  know.  Yet 
I  am  held  by  a  growing  conviction  that  infinite  patience  and  in- 
finite care  in  sifting  out  the  personal  from  the  dramatic  ele- 
ments in  the  Shakespearean  plays  will  not  only  identify  beyond 
the  shadow  of  doubting  the  author  of  them  with  the  Stratford 
player,  but  will  tell  us  more  than  we  now  dream  it  is  possible  to 
know  of  the  man  himself. 


3— s 


THE    GROWTH    OF    SHAKESPEARE 
BY  BARRETT  WENDELL 

In  all  great  literature  there  is  no  quality  more  certainly  con- 
clusive than  its  incessant  freshness.  One  final  test  of  whether 
a  familiar  poem  or  a  familiar  poet  is  truly  to  be  held  enduring 
is  a  marvellous  sense,  whenever  you  turn  to  the  lines — or  at  least 
to  such  of  them  as  prove  significant  for  you — that  these  utter- 
ances are  as  little  staled  by  familiarity  as  if  you  had  never 
glanced  at  them  before.  In  this  perennial  freshness,  the  while, 
there  is  something  delusive;  for  as  the  conditions  amid  which 
poets  lived  pass  from  life,  and  their  poems  survive,  there  must 
come  to  human  beings  of  later  and  remote  times  some  gathering 
perception  if  not  of  obstacle,  at  least  of  perplexity  as  to  just  what 
this  passage  and  that  may  mean.  In  the  matter  of  language, 
this  is  obvious.  For  ages  the  tongues  of  antiquity,  deathless 
though  they  be,'  have  been  intelligible  only  by  means  of  study. 
They  have  not  used  the  words,  nor  'even  the  precise  forms  of 
language,  in  which  any  living  man  has  actually  thought.  To  a 
less  degree  this  is  true  even  of  those  poets  who  long  ago  ex- 
pressed themselves  in  languages  which  we  still  use,  hardly  aware 
that  they  are  always  flexibly  and  insensibly  growing  or  fading. 
No  generation,  and  still  more  no  century,  thinks  and  speaks  and 
lives  in  quite  the  same  terms  as  that  which  preceded  it ;  and  per- 
haps a  deeper  change  still  is  the  change  in  the  daily  aspects  of 
earthly  experience.  So,  when  a  poet  begins  to  pass — still  more 
when  he  has  finally  passed — from  the  transitory  circumstances  of 
his  human  life  into  the  enduring  immortality  of  assured  greatness, 
each  fleeting  generation  must  find  new  perplexities  in  the  lines 
which  record  the  message  of  his  spirit.  Therefore  study  grows 
needful — study  of  the  conditions  which  surrounded  his  life, 
study  of  what  words  meant  to  him  and  no  longer  quite  mean  to 
us. 

This  very  study,  though,  concerning  itself  not  so  much  with 
the  poet  himself  and  his  works  as  with  things  about  them,  has 
a  danger  of  its  own  to  which  scholarship  is  prone  to  succumb. 
Nowadays  those  who  study  poetry  are  increasingly  apt  to  occupy 

[28] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  29 

themselves  not  so  much  with  the  truth  which  poetry  contains, 
with  the  secret  of  its  deathlessness,  as  with  variously  relevant 
facts,  themselves  mortal,  which  may  often  rather  obscure  it  than 
illuminate  it. 

These  generalizations  are  nowhere  more  obviously  true  than 
in  the  case  of  Shakespeare.  Three  hundred  years  ago  there  died 
in  a  Warwickshire  town  a  self-made  local  worthy,  who  had  ac- 
cumulated his  small  fortune  by  honest  work  in  London  as  an 
actor,  as  a  popular  playwright,  and  as  a  shrewd  theatrical  man- 
ager. That  was  probably  what  the  friends  thought  about  who 
laid  him  to  rest  in  Stratford  Church.  To-day  people  are  gath- 
ering all  over  the  Engish-speaking  world  to  celebrate  his  mem- 
ory as  chief  poet  of  our  ancestral  literature,  and  perhaps  the 
chief  poet  of  all  the  modern  world. 

You  can  hardly  have  a  greater  contrast  than  this — between 
the  Shakespeare  whom  a  few  Englishmen  knew  in  the  fle-sh  and 
what  the  name  of  Shakespeare  means  after  the  lapse  of  three 
centuries.  Every  condition  of  his  earthly  life  is  a  thing  of  the 
past.  The  trivial  circumstances  of  his  personal  career  are  dead 
and  gone;  so  are  the  strangely  outworn  and  forgotten  conditions 
of  the  theatre  for  which  he  wrote ;  so  even  are  the  historic  facts 
of  Elizabethan  England  and  of  that  Stuart  England  which 
in  his  later  years  was  already  started  on  its  course  toward  so 
great  a  political  and  social  revolution  that  the  England  he  had 
known  was  extinct  before  those  who  might  have  seen  him  in  the 
flesh  were  all  in  their  graves.  Even  the  native  language  he  used 
is  not  quite  that  in  which  we  try  to  celebrate  his  memory;  for 
in  his  time  English  was  making  and  in  ours  it  has  long  been 
breaking.  Quite  to  understand  what  his  words  mean,  we  must 
study  their  history.  Still  more  we  must  study  even  to  guess 
what  scene  after  scene  in  his  plays,  allusion  after  allusion, 
probably  meant  to  the  audiences  for  whom  they  were  written. 
And  yet  all  the  while  this  work  of  his,  mostly  made,  so  far  as 
we  can  now  tell,  only  to  respond,  like  popular  literature  at  any 
time,  to  the  demand  of  the  moment,  lives  today,  and  will  live 
so  long  as  our  English  language  means  anything  to  any  human 
being.  For  as  the  years  and  generations  and  the  centuries 
begin  to  pass,  men  have  long  since  come  to  know  that  only  the 


30  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

body  of  him  is  dead.  Even  though  the  squalid  theatres  he  wrote 
for  have  long  since  vanished  into  thin  air,  the  lines  which  he 
meant  mostly  for  their  mortal  public  have  never  ceased  to  ap- 
peal to  generations  in  his  day  still  unborn.  Audiences  care  for 
them  still;  still  more,  they  reward  thoughtful  study.  You  cau 
hardly  turn  to  any  of  his  greater  works — indeed,  you  can  hardly 
let  your  eye  fall  on  the  memorable  passages  in  those  lesser  works 
of  his  which  comparatively  seem  trivial — without  the  constant 
sense,  which  is  so  final  a  test  of  poetic  greatness,  that  you  are 
reading  these  familiar  scenes  or  pondering  on  these  familiar 
passages  for  the  first  time.  What  in  all  likelihood  he  meant 
only  to  be  the  work  of  the  moment  has  long  since  proved  itself 
deathless. 

During  the  present  year  these  considerations  have  happened 
to  impress  me  deeply.  Since  last  June,  for  accidental  reasons, 
I  have  twice  read  through  the  whole  work  of  Shakespeare  in 
what  is  conjectured  to  be  its  chronological  order.  Such  sum- 
mary reading  has  its  disadvantages;  it  gives  one  no  time  to 
pause  and  consider  the  myriad  questions  of  technical  scholarship 
which  are  bound  to  gather  about  any  enduring  work  of  the 
past;  it  gives  no  time  to  trace  intricacies  or  perplexities  of  allu- 
sion, no  time  to  do  anything  like  justice  to  the  work  of  those 
countless  scholars  who  have  long  since  discovered  and  recorded 
more  things  about  the  poems  and  the  poet  than  the  poet  could 
ever  consciously  have  known  or  dreamed  of.  At  least,  however, 
it  has  one  advantage;  you  turn  to  each  work  somewhat  as  the 
poet  expected  that  it  should  be  turned  to ;  you  take  each  play  by 
itself  all  at  once,  as  playwrights  always  mean  their  plays  to  be 
taken.  And,  no  matter  how  familiar  the  plays  may  have  be- 
come to  you,  not  one  of  them  fails  to  meet  the  test  of  greatness 
on  which  we  have  been  dwelling.  Each  time  you  read  any  of 
them,  you  find  that  it  impresses  you  as  if  you  had  never  read  it 
before.  In  this  aspect,  indeed,  the  literature  of  all  Europe  has 
only  two  other  poets  comparable  with  Shakespeare:  one  is 
Homer,  the  other  is  Dante. 

Reading  Shakespeare's  plays  in  chronological  order,  the  while, 
you  will  hardly  find  astonishing  power  in  those  which  the  gen- 
eral consent  of  modern  critics  places  earliest.  Though  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  31 

stage  for  which  Shakespeare  wrote  was  hardly  in  existence  when 
he  was  born,  it  had  already  developed,  by  the  time  when  he 
began  to  write,  fairly  fixed  conventions  of  its  own;  and  though 
none  of  the  works  attributed  to  him  lack  admirable  passages, 
those  which  are  thought  to  be  his  earlier  will  probably  impress 
you  as  little  more  than  conventional  Elizabethan  dramas  illumi- 
nated by  occasional  splendors  of  phrase. 

At  least  to  me,  the  first  play  where  my  sense  of  freshness  be- 
comes a  sense  of  wonder  is,  curiously  enough,  a  play  which  is 
often  thought  characteristic  rather  of  his  time  than  of  himseJf. 
This  is  so  much  the  case,  indeed,  that  the  most  literate  of  Amer- 
ican critics,  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  was  disposed  to  think 
Shakespeare's  share  in  it  no  more  than  that  of  occasional  re- 
vision. When  doctors  disagree,  who  shall  decide?  In  Shakes- 
peare's own  life-time,  this  play  was  certainly  attributed  to  him. 
In  the  first  collection  of  his  work  it  was  certainly  included.  Cer- 
tainly, too,  so  long  as  Shakespeare  familiarly  held  the  stage  it 
was  among  the  plays  which  were  most  popular,  and  even  though 
it.  bear  so  many  marks  of  the  outworn  conventions  amid  which 
he  began  to  write,  it  surely  impresses  one  who  reads  it  not  by 
itself,  but  in  its  order  among  his  works,  as  incontestably  marked 
by  the  touch  which  is  his  alone.  I  mean  Ricltard  III. 

In  the  First  Folio,  you  remember,  the  plays  of  Shakespeare 
were  divided  into  three  classes:  comedies,  histories,  and  trag- 
edies. Without  troubling  ourselves  to  define  what  comedies  and 
tragedies  are,  we  may  properly  assume  that  they  are  species  of 
drama  familiar  throughout  literature.  What  the  editors  of 
Shakespeare  called  histories,  on  the  other  hand,  are  things 
almost  peculiar  to  the  stage  of  Shakespeare's  time.  The  later 
part  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign  was  a  time  when  books  of  his- 
tory were  not  generally  accessible.  It  was  a  time,  as  well,  when 
the  art  of  reading  was  by  no  means  so  generally  mastered  as 
has  been  the  case  between  whiles;  and  it  was  a  time  when  the 
accidents  of  political  history  had  excited  in  England  a  patriotic 
enthusiasm  for  heroic  English  tradition  unparallelled  before. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada  took 
place  almost  at  the  moment  when  Shakespeare  probably  began 
his  theatrical  apprenticeship.  Under  these  circumstances,  hack 


32  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

playwrights  took  the  chronicles  where  the  traditional  facts  of 
English  history  were  most  accessibly  recorded;  and  with  little 
more  concern  for  dramatic  form  than  to  reduce  the  story  of  a 
reign  to  a  length  which  could  be  acted  in  one  or  two  sessions, 
they  translated  the  long,  discursive  narrative  into  manageable 
dramatic  terms.  The  earliest  examples  of  this  kind  of  work  in 
the  plays  commonly  attributed  to  Shakespeare  are  the  three 
formless  and  undoubtedly  collaborative  dramas  known  as  the 
three  parts  of  King  Henry  VI.  As  you  read  these  through,  and 
du}l  work  it  is,  one  fact  impresses  you  toward  the  end.  Among 
the  very  numerous  characters  presented  by  means  of  shapeless 
and  blatant  conventions  long  since  outworn,  one  emerges  as  dis- 
tinctly individual.  That  is  the  brilliant,  unscrupulous,  evil, 
Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester.  Thus  we  begin  to  know  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  that  far  more  nearly  great  play,  Richard  HI. 

This  play,  which  in  the  sequence  of  Shakespeare's  English 
histories  immediately  follows  on  the  third  part  of  Henry  VI, 
continuing  the  hardly  broken  story,  differs  from  its  predeces- 
sors in  one  noteworthy  aspect:  it  brings  English  history  to  a 
point  which  at  the  time  when  it  was  written  had  not  only  his- 
torical but  also  political,  or  rather  dynastic,  significance.  Dur- 
ing the  fifteenth  century  the  crown  of  England  had  been  mostly 
in  dispute,  and  the  civil  wars  which  had  vexed  the  country  had 
retarded  the  progress  of  English  prosperity  and  society.  These 
wars  came  to  an  end  in  1485  at  the  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field, 
where  a  fresh  usurper,  the  Earl  of  Eichmond,  defeated  the  last 
king  of  the  house  of  York,  and  founded  a  new '  dynasty,  des- 
tined to  survive  unbroken  for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and  to 
reach  its  culmination  in  the  person  of  that  great  Queen,  Eliza- 
beth, who  seems  to  have  stirred  the  loyal  enthusiasm  of  Eng- 
lishmen beyond  any  other  sovereign  who  ever  sat  on  their  throne. 
Pretty  clearly  though,  the  original  title  of  Henry  VII  to  the 
throne  was  based  on  no  more  divine  right  than  that  of  con- 
quest— successful  brute  force.  A  state  of  political  feeling  en- 
sued which  we  of  America  should  be  among  the  first  sympathet- 
ically to  understand.  In  order  to  kindle  enthusiasm  for  what 
amounted  to  a  revolutionary  government,  it  was  highly  desira^ 
ble  to  represent  the  government  which  this  had  superseded  as 
thoroughly  bad.  The  American  analogy  is  clear.  Our  inde- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  33 

pendence  was  based  on  armed  revolution;  and  for  140  years 
American  school-children  have  been  deliberately  taught  to  be- 
lieve ancestral  England  tyrannical  and  hostile,  and  to  suppose 
King  George  III,  who  was  really  an  honest  and  respectable  Ger- 
man gentleman,  to  have  been  a  deliberately  blood-thirsty  tyrant. 
Similarly,  any  presentation  of  the  life  and  character  of  King 
Richard  III  which  would  have  been  tolerated  by  the  government 
of  Elizabethan  England  was  compelled  to  set  him  forth  as  a 
deep-dyed  villain. 

By  the  time  when  the  play  of  Richard  III  was  producedy 
somewhere  about  1593,  the  dramatic  means  of  doing  so  were 
conventionally  established.  The  playwright  either  took  some  old 
play,  if  he  had  it,  or,  if  he  had  none,  went  straight  to  the  pages 
of  the  chronicler — in  this  case  the  loyal  Elizabethan,  Holinshed 
— and  turned  what  he  found  there  into  the  most  effective  dra- 
matic speeches  which  he  could  devise.  For  such  speeches,  at 
that  time,  there  were  two  or  three  conventional  requisites  now 
completely  obsolete.  Elizabethan  audiences  liked  the  sort  of 
thing  which  we  call  rant — long,  sonorous,  extravagant  outbursts 
of  utterance.  More  subtly,  but  just  as  certainly,  they  delighted 
in  mere  novelty  of  phrase.  They  liked  to  hear  for  the  first  time 
new  words  and  new  combinations  of  words.  Until  very  lately, 
their  English  language  had  long  been  poor  and  feeble  in  the  mat- 
ters of  variety  and  ease.  For  half  a  century  or  so,  the  chief 
energy  of  English  poets,  who  had  often  been  men  of  fashion  as 
well,  had  been  directed  to  enthusiastically  ingenious  attempts  to 
show  what  could  be  done  with  this  language, — by  1500,  for 
poetical  purposes,  almost  barbarous.  In  Shakespeare 's  time  this 
effort,  originally  fashionable,  had  grown  popular  too;  so  who- 
ever should  write  an  acceptable  play  must  fill  it  from  beginning 
to  end  with  what  his  audience  would  feel  to  be  fresh  turns  of 
phrase,  much  as  a  modern  composer  of  popular  opera  must  glad- 
den his  auditors  with  what  they  take  to  be  brand  new  tunes. 

Most  likely  we  have  now  reminded  ourselves  of  how  the 
play  of  Richard  HI  was  conceived  .by  whoever  wrote  it,  and  of 
all  that  Shakespeare,  whatever  his  part  in  it,  ever  intended  it 
to  be.  It  was  meant  for  a  dramatically  popular  presentation, 
in  fresh  and  sonorous  terms,  of  a  reign  in  English  history  which 


34  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

for  dynastic  reasons  had  to  be  set  forth  in  extremely  unpopular 
light.  Every  one  of  these  conditions  is  now  a  matter  of  the 
past.  There  is  nothing  about  any  one  of  them  a  bit  more  vital 
in  our  time  than  the  bones  of  William  Shakespeare  in  his  Strat- 
ford grave.  And  yet  the  play  lives,  and  so  far  as  I  can  discern, 
it  lives  mostly  because  from  all  these  dead  conventions  of  pur- 
pose and  of  construction,  and  from  amid  a  numerous  group  of 
characters  almost  as  remote  from  our  unstudied  sympathies  as 
the  conventions  which  surround  them,  there  somehow  emerges, 
all  the  more  vital  for  the  archaic  strangeness  of  his  surround- 
ings, one  character,  the  crook-back  king,  monstrous,  if  you 
choose  to  analyze  him,  in  spirit  as  in  form,  and  yet  somehow 
elusively,  yet  certainly,  human. 

This  Richard,  Duke  and  King  alike,  is  the  same  human  being 
who  emerged  distinct  in  the  later  scenes  of  King  Henry  VI. 
In  Colley  Gibber's  revised,  or  rather  reconstructed,  version  of 
the  play,  indeed,  which  for  a  century  or  more  was  the  form 
commonly  acted,  a  certain  number  of  passages  from  Henry  VI 
were  included.  But  in  Richard  III,  as  preserved  in  the  canon 
of  Shakespeare,  the  central  character  is  so  distinct  that  we 
should  know  him  for  an  individual,  different  from  any  other 
in  life  or  in  literature,  without  a  line  from  any  but  the  play 
which  bears  his  name.  From  beginning  to  end  his  wits  are  alive. 
He  is  always  aware  not  only  of  the  circumstances  which  sur- 
round him,  but  of  his  purpose  to  control  them.  He  has  in  view 
the  single,  unswerving  end  of  making  himself  not  only  liter- 
ally but  actually  royal.  Beside  him,  the  men  who  surround  him 
are  mere  puppets  with  whom  he  can  play  at  will;  and  the  will 
of  him,  unfathomably  and  wholly  selfish,  prevails  until  it  finds 
itself  at  last  broken  only  with  life  in  its  clash  with  the  inexor- 
able course-  of  history,  itself  a  part  of  the  course  of  nature. 

Monstrous  though  this  conception  may  seem, — monstrous  if 
only  because  it  so  tremendously  assumes  a  pet  folly  of  mankind, 
-the  notion  that  earthly  affairs  can  actually  be  controlled  by 
dominant  human  will, — the  character  of  Richard  is  somehow 
iso  presented  that  the  oftener  you  read  and  put  aside  the  lines 
which  set  it  forth,  the  more  instinctively  you  think  of  him  as 
a  real  man.  In  view  of  this,  one  of  the  surprises  which  con- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  35 

stantly  recur  when  you  turn  back  to  the  lines  is  the  amazing 
remoteness  of  the  method  of  his  presentation  from  anything 
which  would  now  be  conceivably  possible. 

Take,  for  example,  the  most  familiar  speech  he  makes,  familiar, 
to  be  sure,  mostly  because  it  happens  to  begin  the  play.  In 
point  of  fact,  that  opening  soliloquy : 

"Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 

Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun  of  York;" 

is  not  exactly  a  speech  at  all.  It  is  rather  a  prologue,  dis- 
guised only  by  the  chance  that  it  is  spoken  by  one  who  is  sub- 
sequently to  take  part  in  the  play  which  it  introduces.  Thus 
it  proves  hardly  more  than  a  typical  example  of  a  convention 
familiar  to  the  English  stage  long  before  that  stage  took  ma- 
ture form.  You  will  find  the  same  sort  of  thing  in  moralities, 
in  miracle  plays,  in  mysteries.  The  only  difference  is  that 
while  you  instantly  recognize  the  conventional  character  of  the 
older  work,  you  somehow  feel  that  the  lines  spoken  by  Richard 
are  spoke-n  by  somebody,  and  that  his  determination  to  be  a 
villain  is  something  more  than  a  mere  preliminary  statement 
of  what  he  is  going  to  do  in  the  scenes  which  -follow.  Then 
take  what  presently  follows:  Richard's  meeting  with  the  Duke 
of  Clarence,  arrested,  and  on  his  way  to  the  Tower  from  which 
he  is  never  to  emerge.  Offhand  you  woulcl  think  that  nothing 
could  be  more  preposterously  absurd  than  such  a  casual  inter- 
view, in  what  the  stage  directions  generally  accepted  during 
the  last  two  centuries  profess  to  be  a  public  street.  If  anything 
could  be  more  preposterous,  you  might  think  it  the  immediately 
ensuing  street  talk  with  Lord  Hastings.  But  both  of  these  pre- 
posterous incidents  fade  into  something  like  the  light  of  com- 
mon day  beside  what  comes  next — the  blazing  absurdity  of 
Gloucester's  street  courtship  with  the  widowed  Princess  of 
Wales  over  the  coffin  of  her  royal  father-in-law,  lately  mur- 
dered, like  her  husband,  by  the  hand  of  the  wooer.  And  so 
you  may  read  on,  through  scene  after  scene,  act  after  act, 
none  conceivably  actual,  until  the  puppet  ghosts  on  the  eve  o£ 
Bosworth  Field,  though  their  utterances  may  frighten  the  King— 


36  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

conscience  stricken  at  last — seem  each  time  you  recur  to  their 
lines,  more  and  more  unimaginably  remote  from  anything  act- 
ually supernatural. 

From  beginning  to  end,  indeed,  the  play  of  Richard  III,  as 
we  have  it,  is  presented  in  terms  as  far  from  actuality  as  ever 
were  the  terms  of  the  primal  tragedy  of  Greece.  While  through- 
out the  conventions  of  that  primal  tragedy,  however,  there  is  a 
vast  splendor  of  conception,  this  English  chronicle  history  seems 
in  every  conventional  aspect  a  thing  poor  enough  to  deserve 
all  the  strictures  which  Sidney  put  upon  such  absurdities  less 
than  ten  years  before  this  familiar  example  of  them  came  to  the 
light.  Yet  one  cannot  too  wonderingly  repeat  that  despite  these 
archaic  means  of  its  presentation  the  character  of  Richard  cer- 
tainly seemed  living  to  the  audiences  for  whom  it  was  written; 
that  it  has  stayed  living  for  countless  readers  and  auditors 
through  the  generations  since ;  and  that,  -read  it  ofteli  as  you  will, 
it  seems  so  even  to  us  of  the  twentieth  century.  Monstrous 
though  he  be  as  a  conception,  uninterruptedly  conventional  though 
every  syllable  of  the  setting  forth  of  him  be,  presented  from  begin- 
ning to  end  With  hardly  a  touch  of  what  we  may  call  living  actu- 
ality, Shakespeare's  Richard  III  stays  human.  You  may  call 
him  monstrous  as  long  as  breath  lasts.  You  may  assert,  if  you 
like,  that  human  will,  however  brilliantly  incarnate,  cannot  so 
master  the  stops  of  human  nature  and  govern  the  ventages  of 
time  as  to  fulfill  its  purposes  by  mere  dint  of  unfaltering  de- 
termination. Even  while  you  are  thus  decrying  him,  you  will 
fir,d  that  you  are  thinking  about  him  not  as  a  creature  of  imag- 
kation,  or  of  fiction,  but  just  as  if  this  Richard  had  been  the 
Richard  who  lived  and  breathed  and  died  in  his  fifteenth  century 
flesh.  Beyond  peradventure,  the  Richard  of  English  tradition  is 
not  the  Richard  of  recorded  history,  nor  the  Richard  of  Hblin- 
shed  or  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  It  is  this  diabolical  but  still  human 
being  brought  into  undying  existence  by  the  genius  which  was 
Shakespeare's  and  Shakespeare's  alone. 

The  chronology  of  Shakespeare,  though  nowise  definite,  is  at 

least  so  well  made   out  that,   as  we  have  reminded  ourselves 

before,  this  play  of  Richard  III  may  confidently  be  put  among 

1    the  earlier.    It  was  probably  reduced  to  its  present  form  some- 


Memorial  Volume  to,  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  37 

where  about  1593.  Partly  from  the  very  fact  that  it  so  fully 
embodies  the  conditions  amid  which  he_  began  to  work,  the  play 
may  be  taken  as  an  example  of  what  the  Shakespearean  touch 
could  do  in  the  earliest  days  of  its  mastery.  Some  fifteen  years 
later,  probably  about  1606,  this  same  Shakespeare  who  had  mean- 
while produced  most  of  the  comedies,  histories,  and  tragedies 
alike  now  recognized  as  his  masterpieces,  wrote  another 
play  even  more  familiar  to  modern  readers  and  theatre-goers 
than  Richard  III.  This,  often  supposed  to  be  the  latest  written 
of  his  four  principal  tragedies,  is  Macbeth.  Just  as  you  may  take 
Richard  III  for  an  example  of  the  state  of  the  drama  when  his 
power  began  to  show  itself,  so  you  may  take  Macbeth  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  kind  of  work  which  he  did  when  the  drama  was 
fully  developed,  when  his  power  was  still  at  its  height,  but  when 
his  production  was  drawing  to  a  close. 

It  is  hardly  excessive  to  say  that  the  contrast  between  the  two 
plays  thus  put  side  by  side  is  as  great  as  the  contrast  between 
either  of  them  and  some  work  of  modern  times.  They  have 
in  common,  no  doubt,  characteristics  which  belong  to  the  English 
and  to  the  English  theatre  of  their  day,  as  distinguished  from 
any  other.  Both,  when  you  study  them,  prove  adapted  to  the 
stage  conditions  of  their  time  rather  than  of  ours,  and  one  of 
the  miracles  about  both  is  that  they  can  survive  translation  from 
the  day-light  platform  of  an  unroofed  London  pit  to  the  recesses 
of  embossed  prosceniums  and  the  glow  of  graduated  %  electric 
lights  which  happen  to  be  properties  of  our  modern  theatres. 
But,  putting  aside  what  common  traits  these  two  plays  possess, 
take,  to  illustrate  the  difference  between  them,  the  most  obvious 
passage  in  each,  namely,  the  opening  lines.  In  Richard  III,  as 
we  have  already  reminded  ourselves,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester 
walks  out  on  the  stage  alone  and  delivers  in  sonorous  phrase  that 
familiar  soliloquy  which  avows  his  villainy  and  states  his  pur- 
poses. A  dramatic  convention,  perhaps,  and  therefore  conven- 
tionally tolerable,  this  incident  is  one  that  could  never  possibly 
have  occurred.  What  is  more,  while  it  tells  the  audience  pretty 
clearly  what  they  may  expect,  it  does  not  so  touch  their  emotions 
as  to  lure  them  into  any  particular  mood.  Now  compare  with  this 
the  opening  scene  of  Macbeth,  which,  by  the  way,  has  only 


38  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

twelve  lines  as  against  forty-one  in  the  soliloquy  of  Richard.  The 
three  witches,  at  the  end  of  some  unholy  sacrament,  whirlingly 
part — to  meet  again,  when  the  hurly-burly  is  done  and  the  battle 
lost  and  wbn.  We  may  tell  ourselves,  if  we  like,  that  there  are  no 
such  things  as  witches.  We  may  tell  ourselves,  too,  that  no  beings, 
human,  or  divine,  or  diabolical  either,  ever  actually  communi- 
cated with  each  other  in  madly  tripping  trochaic  rhymes.  But 
nobody  can  deny  that  if  there  ever  had  been  such  things  as 
witches,  this  is  the  how  we  might  have  expected  them  to  behave. 
Then  take  the  scene  where  they  reappear,  weaving  together  the 
spell  which  is  to  enchant  Macbeth.  More  and  more  you  feel  that 
even  though  the  words  they  utter  have  the  pregnant  aptitude 
and  the  superhuman  rhythm  of  poetry,  the  thoughts  and  the 
moods  which  these  words  embody,  the  conduct  and  the  character 
which  these  words  set  forth,  are  such  things  as,  if  witches  were 
real,  witches  would  think  and  witches  would  do  and  be.  To  them 
enter  the  victorious  chiefs,  Macbeth  and  Banquo.  The  scene,  as  a 
familiar  line  in  it  reminds  us,  is  on  a  blasted  heath  in  the  midst 
of  a  Scottish  tempest.  If  such  things  as  witches  could  be,  and  if 
such  things  as  the  work  of  them  could  be  wrought,  this  is  just 
where  and  how  their  devilish  wiles  would  be  most  likely  to 
bewilder  and  enmesh  human  victims.  We  need  not  admit  even 
to  ourselves  that  such  things  as  this  could  possibly  take  place 
anywhere  else  than  in  poetry.  No  one  can  deny  that  if  they 
could  take  place,  they  might  take  place  just  so. 

In  the  play  of  Macbeth,  this  scene  between  the  witches  and 
the  generals  whose  fates  they  doom  has  exactly  the  same  place 
as  is  taken  in  the  play  of  Richa-rd  III  by  that  preposterous  woo- 
ing of  the  Princess  Anne  in  London  streets  over  the  bier  of  the 
murdered  Henry.  What  is  true  in  the  contrast  between  these 
opening  scenes  of  the  two  plays  remains  true  throughout.  As  a 
matter  of  actual  incident,  the  literal  story  of  Richard  III  is  Gen- 
erally a  good  deal  more  probable,  a  good  deal  nearer  what  misrht 
occur  in  real  life,  than  is  the  literal  story  of  Macbeth.  But  com- 
pare, if  you  will,  the  rhetorically  prolonged  murder  of  the  Dnkc 
of  Clarence  with  the  appallingly  compact  murder  of  the  sleeping 
Duncan.  Then  read,  if  you  will,  the  interview  between  the 
anointed  King  Richard,  surrounded  by  his  train  with  all  their 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  39 

drums  and  their  trumpets,  and  his  wrathful  mother  and  the 
widowed  queen  of  his  brother  Edward.  Compare  this  theatrically 
effective  but  actually  unimaginable  incident  with  the  scene  of  the 
banquet,  where  Macbeth  trembles  before  the  gory  locks  of  the 
murdered  Banquo,  invisible  to  all  but  himself.  Compare  again 
that  ghostly  visitant  in  his  awful  silence  with  the  loquacious  pup- 
pets that  vex  the  last  moments  of  earthly  sleep  granted  to  doomed 
King  Richard.  So  far  as  mere  language  goes,  the  mie,  you  may 
say,  is  as  far  from  literal  as  the  other.  But  granting  the  superb 
license  of  phrase  which  is  the  outward  and  audible  body  of 
poetry,  you  cannot  but  feel  more  and  more  that  except  for  the 
splendor  of  their  phrasing  the  incidents  in  Macbeth  might  ac- 
tually have  occurred  and  that  what  happens  in  Richard  III 
could  not  possibly  have  happened  anywhere  but  on  the  stage. 

This  is  one  reason  why  Macbeth  is  so  much  more  effective  as 
a  stage  play.  Another  reason,  though  harder  to  specify  in  detail, 
must  grow  evident  to  whoever  reads.  One  fact  which  you  may 
feel  rather  than  point  out  in  all  the  historical  plays  of  Shake- 
speare is  a  sense  of  surging  historic  force.  The  days  which  suc- 
ceed on  the  days,  and  the  years  which  succeed  on  the  years,. and 
the  generations  which  succeed  on  the  generations  breed,  each 
of  them,  we  know  not  how,  the  days,  the  years  and  the  genera- 
tions to  come,  wherein,  dominant  or  not,  no  man  can  finally  pre- 
vail. This  surge  of  history  you  can  feel  even  in  Henry  VI,  and 
still  more  in  Richard  III.  Now  compare  this  with  what  you  feel  in 
Miacbeth;  the  surge  is  no  longer  only  that  of  history,  it  has  be- 
come the  surge  of  fate.  Whence  man  comes,  he  knows  not,  nor 
whither  he  goes.  All  he  can  tell  is  that  amidst  the  storm  of  force 
which  sweeps  him  on,  he  is  conscious,  he  reacts,  and  he  now  and 
again  does  things  which  help  toward  the  end  whither  something 
else  than  he  is  whirling  everything.  In  Macbeth,  perhaps  more 
than  in  tfther  drama  since  the  great  tragedies  of  Greece,  you 
feel  this  resistless  fate,  the  evil  phase  of  it  flickeringly  incar- 
nate in  the  witches,  until  the  human  victims  of  it — themselves 
all  individual,  all  distinct,  all,  like  the  circumstances  which  en- 
viron them,  almost  actual — finally  group  themselves  much  as 
human  beings  group  themselves  before  our  eyes  throughout  the 
daily  experiences  of  our  own  earthly  passage. 


40  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

So  it  is  only  after  a  good  while  that  you  begin  to  feel  emerging 
from  the  sweep  of  fate  in  this  tragedy  and  from  the  commingled 
human  victims  thereof  one  supremely  distinct  individual — the 
protagonist,  Macbeth  himself.  As  we  remember  the  play,  indeed, 
or  as  we  grow  to  know  it  better,  he  stands  forth  in  no  such 
theatrical  isolation  as  that  in  which  we  perceive  the  character  of 
Richard  III  •  he  stands  forth  rather  in  some  such  manner  as  that 
in  which  amid  the  confusion  of  human  actuality  we  somehow 
grow  to  discern  and  to  know  one  man  apart  from  his  fellows. 
It  is  not  that  the  play  of  Macbeth,  any  more  than  any  other 
work  of  poetic  art,  is  set  forth  without  regard  for  literary  con- 
ventions. The  scenes,  the  speeches,  the  words,  the  thoughts,  are 
no  more  literal  than  such  things  were  in  Shakespeare's  earlier 
work.  But  the  conception,  for  all  its  heroic  grandeur,  has  such 
true  relation  to  life  that  just  as  one  thinks  of  Richard — for  all 
his  individuality — as  a  great  figure  of  the  stage,  so — for  all  his 
measureless  dramatic  aspects — one  thinks  of  Macbeth  as  if  he 
were  human — a  man  grandly  tempted,  diabolically  enmeshed, 
accursed,  damned  in  the  very  flesh  before  the  gates  of  hell  are 
opened  to  receive  him,  and  yet,  for  all  that,  so  deeply  our  brother 
man  that  in  recognizing  him  as  man,  one  hardly  realizes  the 
fact  that,  like  Richard  himself,  he  is  a  royal  villain. 

Yet  such  he  is,  beyond  all  manner  of  doubt.  Like  Richard-, 
Macbeth  first  appears  not  as  a  sovereign,  but  as  a  subject.  Like 
Richard,  he  deliberately  clears  from  his  way  all  who  stand  be- 
tween him  and  the  throne.  Like  Richard,  he  strides  before  us 
crowned  and  anointed.  The  chief  difference  between  them  in  this 
aspect  is  that  while  Richard's  villainy  is  instigated  by  his  own 
evil  nature,  the  villainy  of  Macbeth  is  instigated  by  evil  powers 
beyond  his  control,  though  not  needfully  beyond  his  power  of  re- 
sistance. It  may  be  that  Macbeth  is  victim ;  yet  as  a  victim,  even 
though  sometimes  hesitant,  he  is  not  unwilling.  Apart  from  the 
fact  that  we  may  sometimes  sympathize  with  him,  when  we  think 
of  him  as  the  sport  of  fate,  Macbeth  is  a  murderer,  a  usurper, 
such  a  miracle  of  broken  faith  as  should  shame  Carthage  or 
Kaiser,  royal  at  last  only  in  the  dignity  of  soldierly  courage, 
rightly  laid  low  by  the  hand  of  a  wild  justice  which  must  do  its 
relentless  work  before  it  can  stop  to  submit  itself  to  the  condi- 
tions and  limitations  of  established  and  beneficent  law. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  41 

Yet  established  law  is  the  triumphant  end  towards  which  the 
whole  tragedy  tends.  The  last  lines  of  the  play,  rhyming  tags 
though  they  be,  are  spoken  by  the  sovereign  who  is  to  be  crowned 
at  Scone  to  succeed  the  criminal  usurper,  and  to  replace  his 
murderous  tyranny  by  a  system  of  beneficent  rule.  The  words 
have  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  words  which  occupy  a  similar 
place  in  Richard  III.  There  the  victorious  Richmond  makes  a 
rather  long  set  speech,  ended,  too,  with  rhyming  tags,  and  pro- 
phesying how 

"peace  lives  again: 
That  she  may  long  live  here,  God  say  Amen!" 

In  that  case,  the  political  intention  of  the  speech  is  evident.  The 
speaker  is  the  founder  of  that  native  Tudor  dynasty  under  which, 
when  the  play  was  written,  England  had  enjoyed  a  century  of 
something  more  like  peace  than  had  occurred  there  before  since 
the  dethronement  of  King  Richard  II.  Richard  III,  in  fact,  is 
regularly  classed  as  one  of  Shakespeare's  histories,  and  though 
written  earlier  than  those  which  deal  with  Richard  II,  Henry  IV 
and  Henry  V,  it  really  concludes  the  long  historical  story  which 
these  begin.  So,  in  a  way,  those  last  words  of  it  are  like  the 
playing  of  the  "Star  Spangled  Banner"  at  the  end  of  some 
patriotic  performance  which  should  celebrate  the  tyrannies  of 
momentarily  Germanized  Hanoverian  England  and  the  purity  of 
the  ends  achieved  by  the  American  Revolution.  The  peace  to  live 
again  when  the  tyrant  Richard  was  overthrown  was  the  bene- 
ficent, rule  of  the  Tudors,  still  on  the  throne  when  that  old  play 
was  written. 

Offhand,  the  resemblance  between  that  final  speech  of  Rich- 
mond and  the  final  speech  of  Malcolm  in  Macbeth  may  well  seem 
accidental,  hardly  more  than  the  repetition  of  a  device  needful 
under  the  theatrical  circumstances  of  the  time  to  get  a  consid- 
erable number  of  characters  off  the  stage  with  a  dead  body  on. 
their  hands.  When  we  stop  to  think,  however,  of  what  the  pro- 
jected coronation  at  Scone  signifies,  and  of  who  Malcolm  was; 
when  we  remember  the  fantastic  procession  of  crowned  appari- 
tions passing  one  by  one  in  the  witches '  cave  before  the  desperate 


42  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

eyes  of  Macbeth ;  when  we  remember  how  the  eighth  and  last  of 
them  holds  a  glass  wherein  are  reflected  the  images  of  count- 
less such  kings  to  follow,  some  of  them  bearing  two-fold 
balls  and  treble  sceptres;  when  we  remember  that  the  ghost  of 
Banquo  points  at  these  foreshadowed  royalties,  as  those  of  whom 
the  witches  have  prophesied  that  even  though  no  king  himself,  he 
should  beget  kings,  we  can  begin  to  feel  a  deeper  resemblance  be- 
tween these  two  final  passages  than  at  first  appeared.  In  point 
of  fact,  the  death  of  the  usurping  Macbeth  cleared  the  throne  for 
another  line  than  his  own,  just  as  the  death  of  the  usurping 
Richard  cleared  the  royal  path  for  the  Tudors ;  and  the  dynasty 
for  which  the  death  of  Macbeth  cleared  the  way  was  that  which 
succeeded  the  Tudors  on  the  throne  of  England.  When  Macbeth 
was  written,  Queen  Elizabeth  was  dead.  Her  kinsman,  King 
James  I,  had  ascended  the  throne,  and  her  kingdom,  after  its 
crescent  century  and  more  of  native  Tudor  rule  had  passed 
peacefully  into  the  foreign  hands  of  the  Scottish  Stuarts. 

As  a  matter  of  history,  no  doubt,  the  story  of  Richard  III 
comes  fairly  near  the  facts;  and  at  the  time  when  the  play  was 
written,  these  facts  were  less  remote  in  time  than  the  American 
Revolution  is  from  us.  In  comparison,  the  story  of  Macbeth, 
placed  in  the  long  vanished  days  of  King  Edward  the  Confessor, 
and  suffused  with  supernatural  incident,  seems  legendary,  and 
must  have  seemed  so  even  in  Shakespeare's  time.  None  the  less 
there  is  one  clear  fact  about  it:  this  almost  antique  Macbeth 
bore  to  the  ancestry  of  the  house  of  Stuart  some  such  relation  as 
was  borne  to  the  house  of  Tudor  by  the  last  sovereign  of  the 
house  of  York.  What  is  more,  when  students  of  Shakespeare 
begin  to  consider  where  the  stories  of  the  two  plays  come  from, 
they  will  find  the  sources  of  Richard  III  and  of  Macbeth  to  be 
substantially  the  same.  Both  plays  are  taken  from  Holinshed's 
Chronicles,  and  Macbeth  is  taken,  on  the  whole,  with  less  de- 
parture from  the  original  texts.  So  far  as  the  relation  of  sources 
to  plays  goes,  there  is  hardly  any  difference  between  this  stu- 
pendous tragedy  of  Shakespeare's  later  years  and  the  com- 
paratively conventional  history  of  his  earlier. 

Once  realize  this,  and  a  rather  unexpected  conclusion  seems 
reasonable.  What  Shakespeare  actually  tried  to  do  in  both 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  43 

cases  was  to  set  forth,  perhaps  with  old  plays  to  help  him,  and 
certainly  with  easy  reliance  upon  the  Chronicles  in  which  Eng- 
lish history  was  at  the  time  most  accessibly  recorded,  the  story 
of  how  the  beneficient  dynasty  which,  in  each  case,  happened 
to  occupy  the  throne,  had  come  gloriously  to  its  right  by  heroic 
conquest  of  a  wicked  predecessor.  It  is  hard  to  resist  the  belief 
that  the  writer  of  two  plays  so  similar  both  in  purpose  and  in 
relation  to  their  sources  could  hardly  have  thought  of  them 
as  very  different  in  general  character.  Most  likely,  if  Shakes- 
peare himself  considered  Richard  III  as  a  history  he  would 
unhesitatingly  have  considered  Macbeth  as  a  history  too.  To 
him  the  general  character  of  the  two  plays  must  have  seemed, 
almost  identical. 

No  text  of  Macbeth  exists  before  the  folio  of  1623,  and  in 
that  volume,  of  course,  it  was  placed  not  among  the  histories, 
but  among  the  tragedies.  This  classification,  however,  was  un- 
doubtedly that  of  the  editors,  and  not  very  careful.  Indeed, 
they  excluded  from  the  group  of  histories  all  plays  which  did 
not  have  as  the  central  figure  a  fully  recognized  predecessor 
of  the  actual  sovereign  of  England.  Julius  Caesar  and  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  themselves  as  historical  in  character  as  anything 
which  Shakespeare  ever  wrote,  are  thus  classed  as  tragedies. 
So  is  the  legendary  King  Lear.  And  Macbeth,  like  the  earlier 
Stuarts,  was  not  an  English  sovereign,  but  a  Scottish.  This 
fact  alone  might  have  taken  the  play  out  of  the  group  of  his- 
tories. In  calling  Macbeth  a  tragedy,  however,  the  first  editors 
of  Shakespeare  nowise  erred.  No  play  in  modern  literature, 
and  hardly  any  anywhere,  more  completely  embodies  that  sense 
of  resistless  fate  which  animates  the  primal  tragedy  of  Greece. 
The  manner  in  which  Shakespeare  sets  forth  the  appallingly 
tragic  story,  to  be  sure,  is  nowise  classic.  In  certain  stage  de- 
tails, indeed,  it  is  even  less  so  than  a  casual  reader  nowadays 
might  be  disposed  to  think.  Quite  apart  from  the  ribaldry  and 
the  topical  allusions  of  the  drunken  porter,  there  are  in  Macbeth 
a  good  many  pasages  which,  like  the  madness  of  Le-ar  or  of 
Hamlet,  may  originally  have  been  performed  in  a  manner  so 
grotesque  as  to  supply  for  the  original  audiences  an  element 
analogous  to  comedy,  something  at  which  they  might  laugh. 


4— s 


44  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Yet  we  need  not  remind  ourselves  that  all  vestige  of  this  gro- 
tesque phase  of  Macbeth  has  long  since  faded,  not  only  from 
practice,  but  even  from  tradition  itself.  So  any  notion  has 
faded  that  this  tremendous  surge  of  fate  could  ever  for  a  mo- 
ment have  been  considered  in  the  light  of  a  presentation  of 
actual  history.  Tragedy  the  story  has  truly  become.  Tragedy 
it  will  remain  so  long  as  literature  survives. 

So  long  as  our  literature  survives,  too,  Richard  III  will  not 
be  forgotten ;  and  tragedy  though  it  be  called  on  play-bills, 
it  can  never  impress  a  reader  or  play-goer  with  anything  ap- 
proaching the  tragic  sense  which  all  must  feel  in  Macbeth.  In 
point  of  fact,  however,  as  the  considerations  on  which  we  have 
been  dwelling  should  by  this  time  lead  us  to  perceive,  the  great 
contrast  between  these  two  plays,  in  themselves  hardly  fifteen 
years  apart,  is  probably  a  question  not  of  difference  in  purpose 
but  mostly  of  the  growth  of  the  poet. 

His  growth  was  nowise  solitary.  The  fellow-poets  who  sur- 
rounded his  earlier  years,  and  who  faded  out  of  life  long  before 
his  work  was  half  done,  wrote  on  the  whole  in  the  manner  ex- 
emplified in  Richard  III.  The  younger  poets,  who  began  their 
work  after  the  work  of  all  but  Shakespeare  among  their  elders 
had  come  to  an  end,  and  who  surrounded  his  later  years  of 
production,  were  more  sophisticated;  and  by  1606  the  general 
manner  of  English  dramatists  was  far  more  like  that  of  Macbeth. 
The  extraordinary  development  of  Shakespeare  from  his  earlier 
work  to  his  latest  may  therefore  be  held  partly  due  to  the 
accident  that  he  lived  and  was  at  the  height  of  his  powers 
during,  just  the  years  when  the  school  of  which  his  work  forms 
part  was  most  swiftly  developing.  But  the  man  himself  de- 
veloped, too,  and  wondrously.  Even  though  to  himself  and 
to  his  time  he  may  often  have  seemed  little  more  than  a  highly 
skilled  craftsman,  even  though  he  never  disdained,  or  apparently 
tried  much  to  modify,  the  theatrical  conditions  under  which 
his  plays  were  to  be  presented,  even  though,  like  all  his  fellows, 
he  seems  to  have  devoted  the  great  part  of  his  conscious  energy 
to  the  making  of  phrases  which  should  impress  his  hearers  as 
novel,  the  great  fact  remains  that  the  course  of  his  production 
shows,  at  least  from  the  period  of  Richard  III  to  that  of  MacbetJi, 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  45 

his  constantly  increasing  mastery  of  imaginative  truth.  Apart 
from  everything  else,  apart  from  the  compact  intensity 
and  pregnancy  of  his  later  style  as  compared  with  his  earlier, 
apart  from  the  fact  that  in  neither  case — nor  in  any  other 
throughout  his  work — does  his  style  descend  to  vulgar  actuality, 
apart  from  his  contented  acceptance  of  theatrical  conventions 
and  conditions  long  outworn,  there  can  be  no  question  that  in 
incident  and  in  character  Richard  III,  whatever  its  power,  ap- 
pears artificial,  and  that  Macbeth  comparatively  seems  a  part 
of  Nature  itself.  Such  was  the  growth  of  Shakespeare  in  the 
days  of  his  pilgrimage,  from  craftsmanship  to  Art,  from  Art 
to  Nature. 

It  is  now  a  full  three  hundred  years  since  Shakespeare  died. 
The  lapse  of  time  has  made  every  convention  of  the  theatre 
and  of  language  to  which  we  are  now  used  measurelessly  differ- 
ent from  anything  which  he  could  ever  have  dreamed  of.  Yet 
the  very  fact  that  in  these  passing  days  multitudes  are  gather- 
ing together  all  over  the  English-speaking  world  to  celebrate 
his  memory  proves  that  Shakespeare  is  not  dead,  but  living. 
He  is  living,  too,  in  a  grandeur  of  immortality  inconceivable 
to  such  human  beings  as  three  centuries  ago  may  have  known  him 
in  the  flesh.  Just  as  in  the  flesh  he  grew  from  the  poet  of 
Richard  III  to  the  poet  of  Macbeth,  so  in  the  spirit  he  has 
grown  from  the  hack  playwright  of  Elizabethan  London  to  the 
supreme  poet  of  the  language  in  which  we  still  live  out  our 
conscious  beings. 

The  secret  of  th^t  growth  is  what  we  all  yearn  to  know. 
It  is  the  search  for  that  secret,  perhaps,  as  much  as  mere  rev- 
erence for  the  spirit  which  enshrines  it,  which  is  everywhere 
gathering  together  our  tercentenary  companies.  The  secret  of 
poetry  has  never  been  snatched  from  the  heart  of  it.  Po- 
etry itself  has  never  been  imprisoned  within  the  bonds 
of  definition.  But  if  there  be  one  sure  test  of  what  makes 
poetry  true,  that  test  is  a  sense  in  the  reader  that  the  poet  is 
marvellously  and  inexhaustibly  his  fellow  in  feeling.  Your  real 
poet  is  one  who  learns  from  life  to  perceive  in  the  depths  of 
its  mysteries  more  than  eyes  less  keen  than  his  could  ever 
begin  to  discern.  He  is  one,  as  well,  who  somehow  can  express 


46  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

what  he  sees  and* what  he  feels  in  such  manner  that  more  and 
more  of  his  fellow-beings  can  be  guided  by  him  to  see  and  to 
feel  that  to  which,  without  him,  they  would  be  blind  and  deaf. 
He  is  one,  too,  who  feels,  no  one  can  tell  how,  the  strange 
felicity,  with  which  the  arbitrary  terms  and  the  almost  for- 
tuitous rhythms  of  language  can  somehow  be  fitted  to  their  task 
of  meaning  in  a  manner  which  all  mankind  must  feel  beautiful. 
At  heart,  the  secret  of  poetry  lies  in  feeling,  in  fellowship  of 
feeling;  and  fellowship  of  feeling  is  just  what  is  meant  by  the 
Greekish  word  ' '  sympathy. ' ' 

What  marks  the  difference  most  of  all  between  Richard  III 
and  Macbeth  is  the  marvellous  growth  in  sympathy  quivering 
throughout  that  final  tragedy.  What. makes  the  marvel  of  the 
Shakespeare  whom  we  venerate  today  is  that  the  lapse  of  three 
centuries  has  proved  his  sympathy  with  humanity  so  perdurably 
wondrous  in  its  fresh  appeal  to  each  succeeding  generation  that 
no  change  of  earthly  conditions  has  yet  begun  to  dim  its  radiance. 


SHAKESPEARE,  PURVEYOR  TO   THE   PUBLIC 
BY  R.  L.  BATTS 

I  do  not  speak  as  a  Shakespearean  scholar.  I  know  very  little 
of  what  has  been  said  of  Shakespeare  and  his  works.  Whether 
most  of  the  views  I  shall  express  are  very  commonplace  or  very 
heterodox,  I  do  not  know.  They  are  doubtless  too  conservative 
to  be  interesting,  too  crude  to  be  useful. 

MJy  first  knowledge  of  Shakespeare  came  during  the  period 
that  followed  the  horrors  of  the  Civil  War  and  the  miseries  of 
Reconstruction.  It  was  a  period  of  poverty  in  the  South,  and 
there  was  little  money  with  which  to  put  books  into  the  homes. 
Among  the  books  of  my  own  home  there  was  no  juvenile  except 
Shakespeare.  With  intense  interest  I  read  those  universal 
stories  that  the  great  dramatist  utilized  and  glorified — ignoring 
the  unfamiliar  words,  but  getting  all  the  tale,  and  not  failing 
to  appreciate  somewhat  the  beauty  of  thought  and  word  that 
gave  life  and  blood  to  the  great  men  and  lovable  women  created 
for  me. 

While  yet  I  was  very  young,'  Edwin  Booth  came  to  Texas, 
and  at  Galveston  played  greatly  in  ten  great  plays.  Among 
these  were  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Othello,  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 
Richard  III,  and  Julius  Caesar.  Booth's  Hamlet  was  the  first 
play  I  ever  saw.  Since,  I  have  read  it  many  times ;  many  times 
seen  it  played ;  many  times  seen  plays  almost  as  great ;  but  once 
only  have  I  been  so  deeply  stirred  by  anything  in  art — when 
from  sublime  sound  measures  of  Das  Rheingold,  grandly  crashed 
by  a  great  orchestra,  came  liquid,  vibrant,  sweet,  strong  notes, 
and  first  I  realized,  in  exquisite  pain,  the  overwhelming  majesty 
and  beauty  that  may  be  in  the  human  voice. 

Two  or  three  years  after- this,  my  introduction  to  the  drama, 
sometime  I  sat  at  the  feet  of  a  rare  teacher  of  English  who 
loved  Shakespeare.  Beauties  new  to  me  he  pointed  out,  and 
I  learned  to  find  delights  before  unknown.  My  vision 
clearer,  my  view-point  was  unchanged.  I  have  not  greatly 
cared  to  read  the  things  said  about1  what  Shakespeare  wrote, 
when  I  have  been  able  to  read  the  things  he  wrote,  and  some- 

[47] 


48  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

times  privileged  to  see  them  interpreted  by  a  master  player.  If 
I  had  read  other  than  for  the  pleasure  of  the  reading,  doubtless 
a  different  would  have  been  a  better  course.  But  I  have  been  of 
the  class  for  whom  Shakespeare  labored,  and  I  have  needed 
neither  glossary  nor  commentator — the  only  equipment  required 
a  little  ordinary  intelligence,  a  little  ordinary  power  of 
imagination,  a  little  ordinary  capacity  for  enjoyment. 

I  am  of  those  for  whom  he  wrote.  There  are  three  hundred 
years  of  us.  There  are  to  be  many  centuries  more.  The  critics. 
the  scholars,  the  philosophers  are  to  give  way  to  us.  We  are  to 
pass  the  final  judgment  on  his  work.  Those  who  would  usurp 
our  function  can  not  permanently  maintain  that  the  creatures 
of  Shakespeare's  intellect  and  imagination  are  for  the  learned 
alone.  The  assumption  can  not  persist  that  there  is  more  to  be 
gained  in  the  study  of  his  unfamiliar  words  than  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  plays.  Nor  can  it  always  be  that  his  doubtful  read- 
ings will  receive  more  consideration  than  the  imposing  array  of 
language  which  expresses  all  that  is  magnificent  in  thought.  It 
is  well  that  the  various  readings  be  given  discriminating  at- 
tention. The  words  he  used  and  the  manner  of  their  use  are 
amply  worthy  of  study.  The  details  of  the  life  of  the  over- 
shadowing literary  genius  are,  of  course,  most  interesting.  But 
after  all,  that  which  he  wrote, — that  which  he  expressed  to  the 
people  for  whom  he  wrote, — is  the  thing  worth  while,  the  thing 
most  worth  while  in  all  literature. 

I  think  very  many  people  of  this  period  have  been  fright- 
ened into  the  assumption  that  Shakespeare's  plays  are  an 
affectation  of  the  "high  brow,"  an  occupation  of  the  scholar. 
More  than  three  hundred  years  ago  they  were  written  by  a 
democrat  for  the  public.  By  democrat  I  mean  one  capable 
of  affiliating  with  all  classes,  one  who  gets  pleasure  from  such 
association.  By  public  I  mean  all  who  have  the  ordinary  feel- 
ings, the  standard  emotions,  the  average  intellects,  the  normal 
aspirations,  the  conventional  hyprocrisies.  Shakespeare's  pub- 
lic included  men  of  every  grade  of  social  standing,  every  level 
of  intellectual  endowment,  every  degree  of  mental  training. 
This  public  understood  and  approved,  enjoyed  and  rewarded. 
It  provided  a  competency  for  his  age.  It  accorded  to  his  call- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  49 

ing  as  am  actor  unaccustomed  respectability.  It  encouraged 
into  being  his  new  profession  of  playwright. 

It  would  be  humiliating  to  assume  that  in  the  years  which 
have  intervened  there  has  been  so  serious  a  deterioration  in  the 
public  intellect  that  that  which  interested  and  amused  the  peo- 
ple of  the  Elizabethan  period  can  not  now  be  understood.  It 
may  indeed  be  true  that  overindulgence  in  aenemic  literature 
and  decadent  dramatic  art  has  created  a  chronic  intellectual 
lassitude  that  hesitates  before  a  Shakespearean  play  as  involving 
mental  exertion — unnecessary,  disagreeable,  and  unjustifiable 
mental  exertion.  But  the  infection  of  cerebral  cessation  is  not 
universal,  and  neither  excess  of  insipid  literature  nor  plethora 
of  plays  from  which  thought  has  been  expurgated  has  rendered 
obsolete  the  dramatic  work  of  Shakespeare. 

Notwithstanding  the  play  as  "the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle 
of  the  time"  is  usually,  as  a  play,  ephemeral,  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  lapse  of  more  than  three  hundred  years,  many  of  the 
dramas  of  Shakespeare  are  available  for  present  use  upon  the 
current  stage,  as  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Julius  Caesar,  The  Merchant 
of  Venice,  Othello,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dmim.  Twelfth  Night, 
The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  King  Richard  III,  The  Comedy  of 
Errors,  As  You  Like  It.  A  great  actor  may  anywhere  in  Amer- 
ica present  Shakespeare  to  crowded  houses,  even  in  the  great 
cities.  Forbes  Robertson  may  do  so  now,  as  Booth  did  in  his 
day,  and  Irving.  The  mediocre  may  conjure  with  the  mighty 
name  and  secure  undeserved  successes. 

It  is  doubtful  if  all  the  other  playwrights  together  have 
during  the  years  since  Shakespeare  began  to  write  produced  as 
many  permanent  plays,  plays  that  may  be  read  with  pleasure  and 
played  with  profit.  No  play  of  any  English  predecessor  or 
contemporary  survives  as  a  practical  play.  His  successors  have 
contributed,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  The  Rivals,  The  School  for 
Scandal,  a  few  others  perhaps  that  have  long  enough  lived  to 
bid  for  place  among  the  plays  that  are  permanent.  Some  of  the 
plays  of  the  present  generation  have  literary  merit;  some  have 
dramatic  merit.  I  do  not  think  of  one  combining  these  qual- 
ities. The  works  of  Bernard  Shaw  are  tempting  to  read,  as 
unwholesome  diet  may  be  spiced  to  be  as  delightful  as  indi- 


50  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

gestible.  But  no  one  of  his  plays  has  relation  to  life  as  it  is 
or  has  been.  They  are  comedies  aspiring  to  smartness — shams 
fired  at  shams.  The  play  to  be  permanent  must  deal  with  per- 
manent things;  with  things  that  are  common  to  all  mankind; 
with  the  things  that  are  a  part  of  every  human  period;  with 
things  that  all  people  and  all  peoples  may  understand.  .  If 
there  is  to  be  smartness,  it  must  be  incidental. 

The  plays  of  Shakespeare  were  not  written  for  the  cultured, 

/nor  for  the  learned,  nor  yet  for  the  ignorant,  or  those  lacking 

/  in  culture,  but  for  all  men  and  women  who  have  the  normal 

\     I  faculties  of  men  and  women  and  the  normal  interest  in  men 

^  I  and  women.     They  reached  the  understanding  and  met  the  re- 

I  quirements  of  the  groundlings,  not  more  nor  less  than  of  the 

I   class  called  better.     It  need  not  be  argued  that  those  who  came 

to  pay  for  the  pleasure  of  the  play  understood  the  meaning 

of  the  player's  words.     Attendance  was  not  on  compulsion,  not 

even  the  compulsion  of  public  opinion.     The  play  is  subject 

to  the  supreme  test,  the  inexorable  test  of  success.     It  must 

amuse,   interest,   satisfy,    or  the   play  house   must   close.     The 

plays  of  Shakespeare  have  stood  this  test  of  his  own  time  and 

of  the  centuries  since.     For  the  test  literary  merit  was  essential, 

and  very  much  more. 

For  one  thing,  so  great  and  so  simple  a  result  is  beyond  the 
power  of  any  save  a  very  human  man.  There  are  those  who 
would  invest  Shakespeare  with  qualities  no  man  may  be  given. 
There  are  those  who  would  account  him  not  more  than  an 
ignorant  person  who  achieved  a  bad  reputation  and  a  mediocre 
competency.  The  latter  are  confined  to  the  victims  of  the  Bacon- 
ian theory,  an  amusing  literary  joke  so  cleverly  conceived  as 
to  make  ' '  convertites "  among  every  class  of  readers,  except 
those  who  read  Shakespeajre  and  Bacon.  Those  inclined  to 
apotheosize  the  very  great  dramatist  have  among  them  poets  and 
philosophers  who  can  not  separate  the  words  of  Shakespeare 
from  the  lofty  thought  structures  these  words  have  inspired. 
There  are  those  who  would  invest  him  with  a  developing  mysti- 
cism, an  ever  changing  philosophy ;  one  who  from  merry  dal- 
liance with  "such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on"  passed  to  a 
dark  and  savage  conception  of  life  of  which  Caliban  was  the 
degraded  exponent. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  51 

These  ideas  concerning  Shakespeare,  except  when  entirely  with- 
out foundation,  are  based  upon  interpretation  of  language  in 
his  plays  and  poems;  and  must  presuppose  that  his  time  was 
principally  employed  in  carefully  selecting  words  sufficiently 
enigmatic  to  require  much  time  and  study,  but  from  which 
the  very  learned,  if  very  persistent,  might  ultimately  determine 
the  profoundly  mystic  philosophy  he  had  worked  out  during  the 
very  busy  days  of  his  very  practical  life. 

In  some  of  the  sonnets  there  are  expressions  hardly  to  be 
explained  save  on  the  assumption  of  a  personal  reference,  and 
in  the  plays  there  are  doubtless  frequent  expressions  of  per- 
sonal opinions,  yet  to  undertake  to  determine  his  philosophy 
of  life  from  the  words  he  puts  into  the  mouths  of  his  characters 
would  be  to  invest  him  with  all  that  is  noble  and  majestic  and 
all  that  is  mean  and  degraded.  For  his  plays  chronicle  all 
crime,  detail  all  follies,  expound  all  ignoble  thought,  analyze  all 
worthy  action,  express  all  that  is  honorable,  dignified  and  noble. 
Take  him  for  what  he  was,  and  no  one  shall  look  upon  his  like 
again,  but  this  does  not  warrant  clothing  him  with  the  qualities 
be  shaped  into  men  to  walk  upon  the  stage.  He  did  not  for  him- 
self exclaim: 

"How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable, 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world!" 

If  I  should  look  for  words  of  his  own  to  describe  him,  these 

upon  occasion,  I  would  take: 

• 

"But  a  merrier  man, 
Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal; 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit, 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch 
The  other,  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest, 
Which  his  fair  tongue,  conceit's  expositor, 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words 
That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished, 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse." 


52  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Yet,  I  would  know  it  described  only  a  phase  of  his  many  sided 
self.  Be  was  not  Hamlet,  nor  Brutus,  nor  Shylock,  nor  Falstaff. 
They  are  among  the  many  creatures  of  his  brain.  Somewhat 
he  gave  of  himself  in  their  making;  gave  as  the  reader  gives, 
but  more;  gave  as  the  actor  gives,  but  less. 

Shakespeare  is  among  the  very  greatest  men  of  earth,  with 
Caesar,  Mahomet  and  Napoleon.  But  he  was  very  human,  as 
were  they.  And  that  part  of  his  work  which  was  greatest  was  in- 
cident to  the  very  human  living  of  his  life.  That  he  has  become 
the  most  important  literary  character  of  history  obscures,  but 
does  not  change,  the  fact  that  that  which  brought  him  immor- 
tality was  done  in  the  ordinary  course  of  laborious  and  exacting 
business.  The  noblest  thoughts  that  have  been  expressed  since 
men  have  given  thought  expression  were  shaped  into 'the  noblest 
words  that  have  been  used  since  words  have  been  in  use,  to 
supply  amusement  for  a  price,  that  for  the  price  might  live  their 
author  and  the  lowly  workers  at  a  scarcely  tolerated  trade.  These 
labors  in  his  business  removed  at  length  the  restrictions  of  a 
binding  poverty,  and  something  of  recognition  of  his  talents 
brought  general  association  with  the  mighty  of  the  land,  but 
his  connection  with  the  stage  and  his  work  as  a  practical  play- 
wright continued,  and  to  the  time  of  his  death  immortal  lit- 
erature was  produced  at  the  demand  of  material  prosperity. 

It  is  not  uninteresting  to  consider  whether  Shakespeare  real- 
ized that  in  meeting  the  exactions  of  his  business  he  was  achiev- 
ing lasting  literature.  It  may  be  he  was  not  without  some  ap- 
preciation of  the  value  and  quality  of  his  plays  and  yet  without 
conception  of  the  supremacy  they  would  be  accorded.  Much 
of  the  strength  of  the  language  is  born  of  a  bold  carelessness 
that  could  not  have  given  much  thought  to  the  future.  But 
there  is  not  lacking  evidence  that  he  highly  valued  his  poems. 
Possibly  the  plays,  as  part  of  his  daily  work,  were  unconsciously 
great,  or  greater  than  he  knew,  while  the  poems  were  a  bid  for 
reputation.  With  prosperity  and  improved  social  standing, 
probably  came  literary  ambitions,  seeking  realization  in  poetry. 
Venus  and  Adonis,  The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  and  the  sonnets  rank 
high  in  English  poetry,  and  entitle  Shakespeare  to  stand  with 
Chaucer,  Milton,  Spenser,  and  Tennyson.  But  if  he  had  not, 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  53 

in  the  course  of  business,  written  greater  poetry  than  these  am- 
bitious efforts,  fame  would  not  have  placed  him  among  the 
great  who  have  been  of  earth  and  given  names  to  epochs  in  its 
history. 

"Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme" 

expresses,  I  think,  his  own  conception  of  the  merits  of  his  poems. 
And  again: 

"Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse, 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read, 
And  tongues  to  be  your  being  shall  rehearse, 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead; 
You  still  shall  live — such  virtue  hath  my  pen- 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of  men. ' ' 

Such  virtue  had  his  pen  used  in  the  ordinary  course  of  busi- 
ness that  these  gentle  verses  have  been  saved  from  being  im- 
mured and  lost  in  the  countless  non-read  volumes  of  the  British 
poets.  There  is  that  in  conscious,  ordered,  purposed  poetry 
that  doth  depart  from  all  the  ordinary  thoughts  and  acts  of 
men.  The  metre,  the  rhyme,  the  dainty  words  expressing  del- 
icate ideas  or  lofty  feeling,  have  that  of  artificiality  which  rarely 
fits  their  daily  doings.  There  are  little  bits  of  poetry  that  burn 
with  passion;  little  bits,  which  sounding,  soothe  or  stir;  little 
bits  that  come  into  the  universal  life  of  men.  But  save  as 
lyrics  of  human  love  or  songs  of  Heavenly  devotion,  poetry  is 
not  an  ordinary  part  of  ordinary  life;  it  is  something  for  poets 
to  write,  something  for  potential  poets  to  enjoy.  In  its  more 
usual  forms,  it  rarely  deals  effectively  save  with. the  grandest 
or  the  most  delicate  of  human  actions.  Many  things  men  do 
neither  very  great  nor  very  dainty  but  not  lacking  in  virility 
and  strong  human  interest.  To  these  it  is  difficult  to  give  ade- 
quate and  satisfactory  poetic  expression,  except  in  the  dramatic 
form.  Poetry  as  a  form  of  expression  for  the  drama,  giving 
feeling  and  beauty  to  action,  is  its  happiest  use.  And  because  of 


54  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

this  use,  and  not  because  of  his  formal  efforts  at  the  art,  Shakes- 
peare must  be  named  the  greatest  poet. 

But  the  life  work  of  Shakespeare  as  Shakespeare  looked  upon 
it  was  not  poetry  as  Shakespeare  looked  upon  it.  His  business 
was  acting,  conducting  playhouses,  and  writing  plays.  He  was 
actively  so  engaged  at  the  time  when  the  modern  business  of 
furnishing  amusement  to  the  public  was  in  its  infancy.  There 
is  nothing  to  indicate  that  he  achieved  notable  success  as  an 
acftor.  The  time  indeed  was  not  long  past  when  it  was  difficult 
to  distinguish  between  the  actor  and  the  vagrant,  and  greatness 
seems  not  to  have  been  predicated  of  the  player's  art.  But 
Shakespeare  was  not  lacking  in  knowledge  of  the  art.  In  a 
paragraph  he  has  summed  it  up: 

"Do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand,  thus,  but  use 
all  gently;  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say, 
the  whirlwind  of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temper- 
ance that  may  give  it  smoothness.  0 !  it  offends  me  to  the  soul 
to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to  tat- 
ters, to  very  rags.  ...  Be  not  too  tame,  neither,  but  let  your 
own  discretion  be  your  tutor;  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the 
word  to  the  action;  with  this  special  observance  that  you  o'er- 
step  not  the  modesty  of  nature;  for  anything  so  overdone  is 
from  the  purpose  of  playing,  whose  end  is  to  hold  the  mirror  up 
to  nature." 

This  knowledge  of  the  actor's  art  and  his  amply  rewarded 
capacity  as  a  theatrical  manager  are  unimportant  save  as  factors 
in  his  success  as  a  playwright.  It  was  a  part  of  the  business 
of  this  man  of  greatest  intellect  to  make  himself  understood 
by  those  of  every  grade  of  intellect,  of  this  greatest  poet  to 
secure  appreciation  from  those  without  conscious  knowledge  or 
love  of  poetry.  There  were  things  to  be  done  which  he  knew 
how  to  do — so  well  knew  how  to  do,  that  nowhere  in  all  his  plays 
is  there  evidence  of  labored  effort. 

So  erroneous  is  the  sometime  conception  of  the  equipment  re- 
quired that  it  has  been  argued  that  the  plays  ascribed  to  Shakes- 
peare must  have  been  written  by  one  of  better  education.  This 
involves  two  errors :  that  these  great  plays  could  be  the  product 
of  education;  and  that  Shakespeare  was  lacking  in  education. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  55 

Foolish  things  are  said  of  education.  It  is  a  satisfactory  sub- 
stitute for  many  little  things,  many  important  little  things.  It 
can  not  take  the  place  of  a  single  essential  thing.  It  is  a  skill- 
ful hand,  a  useful  tool,  a  lubricant,  a  paint  to  cover  defects. 
If  education  were  greatness,  or  could  breed  it,  Shakespeares 
would  be  plenty  as  blackberries.  That  which  made  immortal 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare  was  genius  and  learning,  wisdom, 
experience,  necessity,  labor.  No  education  could  have  given 
the  genius;  it  is  from  the  Source  of  Power  that  put  the  suns 
in  motion  and  keeps  the  stars  in  their  courses.  It  was  not  with- 
out dependence  on  these  lesser  forces,  these  forces  that  are  edu- 
cation; learning,  that  brought  to  his  aid  nature's  legal  code; 
wisdom,  that  lit  up  for  him  the  obscure  places  of  the  human 
heart  and  intellect;  experience,  efficient  guard  against  error; 
necessity,  persistent  prod  to  labor;  labor,  the  curse  with  which 
God  blessed  mankind. 

But  Shakespeare  did  not  lack  even  the  inadequate  education 
of  the  schools.  A1  the  Grammar  School  at  Stratford  was  laid  the 
foundation  for  all  the  learning  to  be  had  from  books.  If  the 
diffused  instruction  of  the  schools  of  our  time  may  be  best 
measured  in  the  sum  total  of  valuable  results,  it  is  not  the  best 
for  those  who  are  potential  scholars  and  thinkers.  The  teaching 
of  Shakespeare's  day  was  concentrated.  From  the  standpoint 
of  the  erudite  scholar  of  that  day,  Shakespeare  had  "little  Latin 
and  less  Greek,"  but  he  had  as  much  as  the  average  university 
graduate  of  today.  And  he  had  enough  for  his  needs.  The 
ending  of  his  short  school  career  did  not  conclude  his  acquisi- 
tions from  the  books.  With  the  advantage  that  a  few  only 
were  available,  he  read  and  appropriated.  And  thus  he  acquired 
the  necessary  history,  the  essential  poetry,  the  fundamental 
fiction. 

While  much  has  been  said  about  his  lack  of  education,  there 
has  been  as  much  comment  upon  the  astonishing  scope  of  his 
learning.  The  one  involves  a  conclusion  not  more  accurate  than 
the  other.  A  comprehensive  knowledge  of  the  law  is  ascribed 
to  him,  and  wonder  is  expressed  at  his  learning  in  medicine, 
agriculture,  mechanics,  natural  history — in  nearly  everything 
•Ise.  As  to  the  law,  he  may  have  known  a  great  deal.  There 


56  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

is  nothing  in  his  plays  or  poems  to  indicate  it.  He  utilized, 
principally  for  puns,  legal  phrases  and  terms,  as  "fine,"  "re- 
covery," "fee,"  which  must  have  been  in  very  general  use 
in  his  day.  In  one  instance,  in  the  grave-diggers  scene  in 
Hamlet,  he  evidences  familiarity  with  a  contemporaneous  legal 
decision.  This  indicates  nothing  further  than  that  with  the 
limited  literature  then  accessible  those  with  whom  he  associated 
found  more  time  than  can  now  be  commanded  to  laugh  at  the 
absurdities  of  the  administration  of  the  law,  though  it  is  per- 
haps now  a  much  more  fertile  field  for  laughter.  For  the  law 
solemnly  reveres,  tenderly  preserves,  and  laboriously  catalogues 
its  absurdities.  The  Court  had  gravely  considered  and  learn- 
edly argued  whether  a  person  suffered  death  before  he  com- 
mitted suicide  or  committed  suicide  before  his  death.  Shakes- 
peare egotistically  assumed  that  he  could  caricature  the  case. 
Most  of  the  legal  expressions  used  by  Shakespeare  are  from  the 
law  of  realty.  He  indulged  in  enough  litigation  to  have  learned 
them.  The  expense  of  the  acquisition,  explained,  if  it  did  not 
justify,  the  effort  to  make  the  knowledge  useful  by  making  it 
amusing. 

His  references  to  other  sciences  show  the  intelligent  familiarity 
every  intelligent  man  must  have  with  the  things  going  on  around 
him  and  constituting  the  labors  and  studies  of  the  intelligent 
men  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact.  He  had  a  sufficient  knowl- 
edge of  Latin,  French  and  Spanish,  Italian  and  Greek,  Law  an.d 
Agriculture,  Astronomy,  Physics,  History  and  Mythology  to 
serve  the  purposes  of  a  playwright  undertaking  to  serve  a  pub- 
lic that  knew  not  nearly  so  much.  He  could  doubtless  have  got 
along  on  less ;  and  he  would  doubtless  have  had  the  good  sense 
not  to  have  burdened  his  plays  and  his  poems  with  pedantry 
if  he  had  had  the  scholarship  of  Bacon  or  Selden. 

Shakespeare's  appropriation  from  the  books  by  no  means  mea- 
sures the  accretions  to  his  knowledge.  That  which  he  acquired 
was  not  "lean  and  .wasteful  learning";  that  which  came  to  him 
made  the  foundation  of  wisdom.  His  business  was  to  purvey  to 
all  the  public,  and  it  was  necessary  that  he  know  their  needs. 
Or  at  least  their  wishes.  He  had  the  requisite  versatility.  No 
doubt  your  Shakespearean  scholar  could,  by  ample  quotations, 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  57 

prove  him  servile  to  the  great;   prove  that  always  he   would 

"Crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee 
Where  thrift  might  follow  fawning." 

But  so  you  could  prove  him  anything.  Undoubtedly  he  ca- 
tered also  to  the  great,  and  by  no  means  would  have  offended 
those  of  his  patrons  by  a  failure  to  render  unto  Caesar  the 
things  that  Caesar  thinks  he  ought  to  have.  And  thus  also  he 
made  available  for  professional  uses  the  manners  and  habits 
of  thought  affected  or  indulged  by  those  of  noble  birth  and 
high  position.  He  flattered  and  pleased  the  great,  and  pleased 
not  less  the  lowly  who  revered  them  and  the  ambitious  who 
envied. 

So  also  contributed  to  his  wisdom  the  low  associations  and  un- 
restrained conduct  of  his  early  days  and  the  more  conventional 
immoralities  of  his  maturer  years.  His  youthful  blood  ran  riot- 
ous. He  did  that  which  was  criminal,  and  that  which  was  im- 
moral, and  that  which  was  foolish.  For  his  crime  of  poaching  he 
compensated  the  injured  by  conferring  lasting  fame  through 
immortal  doggerel.  Tradition  says  he  was  a  member  of  a  drink- 
ing team  that  engaged  in  championship  bouts  with  ambitious 
herds  from  neighboring  villages.  That  he  was  guilty  of  graver 
indiscretions  rests  upon  safer  ground  than  tradition.  That  the 
rising  spirit  of  Puritanism  affected  him  little  his  writings  and 
his  deeds  attest. 

The  recorded  lives  of  men  cover  a  very  great  period  and  the 
overlapping  generations  have  accumulated  and  transmitted  vast 
stores  of  statements,  thoughts,  facts,  conjectures.  But  though 
man  has  been  the  most  important  and  the  most  assiduous  study 
of  mankind,  and  though  learned  essayists  and  wise  dramatists 
may  cast  up  the  general  average  of  human  conduct  and  motive, 
no  man  can  most  effectively  teach  save  as  he  has  seen  and  felt 
and  done.  No  man  can  in  his  own  proper  self  feel  all  the  emo- 
tions men  may  feel — live  all  there  is  in  all  lives.  But  who  lives 
intensely  the  little  span,  who  lives  freely  the  little  span,  who 
lives  boldly  the  little  span,  is  wise,  though  it  may  be  he  has  not 
wisely  lived.  If  he  is  brave  enough  and  honest  enough  and 


58  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

not  lacking  in  memory  and  the  power  of  thought,  he  will  have 
within  him  that  worth  while  for  his  fellows  to  know.  And  if  he 
has  capacity  for  expression,  measuring  that  to  be  told,  he  will 
be  an  ample  pool  of  pleasure,  from  which  a  stream  of  wisdom 
flows. 

There  are,  it  may  be,  things  abstractly  right  and  things  ab- 
stractly wrong.  For  good  and  evil  are  measured  by  what  is 
wholesome  or  harmful  to  the  human  body  and  the  things  of 
the  soul  which  timely  abide  with  the  body.  But  ordinarily 
ethical  questions  can  not  be  determined  without  considering 
something  more  personal  than  abstractions,  and  every  man  is 
entitled  to  the  alleviating  defense  that  he  should  not  be  ex- 
pected to  be  markedly  better  than  the  period  in  which  he  lives. 
And  whether  he  be  better  or  worse  than  his  time  or  ours,  we 
are  not  forbidden  to  profit  by  the  teachings  of  the  wicked,  nor 
should  the  sinner  be  denied  the  atonement  of  a  universal  service 
through  giving  a  universal  pleasure. 

My  thesis  is  that  Shakespeare  save  in  being  a  genius  was  not 
different  from  the  ordinary  run  of  men.  I  do  not  therefore 
defend  him  against  charges  of  vice,  immorality,  folly.  If 
Heaven  has  pardoned  his  sins,  we  should  not  hesitate  to  forgive 
his  follies.  For  out  \>f  the  bold  waywardness  of  youth  and  the 
discreter  deviations  of  advancing  years  came  first-hand  knowl- 
edge of  yearnings,  ambitions,  temptations,  weaknesses,  emotions 
that  are  the  mainspring  of  action.  With  all  his  power  of  imagi- 
nation, of  assimilation,  of  quick  perception,  of  universal  appro- 
priation, he  could  not  have  been  the  greatest  .of  poets  and  dra- 
matists without  these  fundamental  experiences,  this  personal 
knowledge  of  fundamental  emotions,  without  this  wisdom  born 
of  folly. 

There  is  much  poetry  lacking  life  that  nathless  I  love, — 
for  its  musical  numbers,  for  its  well-chosen  words.  Yet  I  know 
it  factitious,  its  numbers  made  musical  by  slow  and  labored 
processes,  by  additions,  eliminations,  substitutions.  There  are 
in  Shakespeare  thngs  hot  from  the  heart,  words  not  the  pro- 
geny of  words,  but  born  of  ecstacies  or  things  deeply  suffered. 
And  always  he  speaks  as  one  who  knows. 

By  the  standards  ordinarily  used  to  test  human  knowledge. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  59 

he  was  neither  ignorant  nor  erudite.  He  knew  enough  to  amuse 
and  instruct.  And  he  knew  how  to  amuse  and  instruct  both 
the  ignorant  and  the  erudite.  One  of  the  present  day  not 
learned  of  books  might  consider,  detached  from  the  text,  the 
unfamiliar  words  of  Shakespeare,  and  assume  that  he  had  writ- 
ten alone  for  scholars.  No  such  impression  could  arise  from 
an  unalarmed  reading  of  the  whole.  Probably  he  used  words 
that  were  not  understood  by  all  the  playgoers  of  his  day.  It 
is  not  unusual  for  intelligent  and  even  educated  people  of  our 
time  to  be  compelled  to  resort  to  the  dictionary  for  the  meaning 
of  words  used  in  public  discourses  and  current  literature.  So 
it  must  have  been  then.  And  so  it  especially  must  have  been 
in  reading  or  hearing  the  words  of  one  whose  wealth  of  words 
was  unapproachably  marvelous.  He  used  all  the  words  of  his 
day  that  were  usable  in  literature,  and  more.  He  gave  new  mean- 
ings to  old  words,  made  new  verbs  of  old  nouns,  ventured  some- 
times to  make  new  words.  The  thing  to  cause  astonishment  is 
not  that  he  should  have  words  unfamiliar  to  twentieth  century 
readers,  but  that  the  number  is  not  vastly  greater. 

So  nearly  is  the  language  the  language  of  today  as  to  suggest 
that  his  plays  are  entitled  to  divide  with  the  King  James  trans- 
lation of  the  Bible  credit  for  fixing  English  speech.  Many  of 
the  phrases  and  expressions  have  been  adopted  into  the  common 
language  of  the  people,  and  many  more  are  so  freely  used  by 
the  cultured  that  acknowledgment  of  source  is  unnecessary. 
Note  the  following  from  a  single  play : 

"The  time  is  out  of  joint."  "Something  is  rotten  in  the 
State  of  Denmark."  "The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould 
of  form."  " The  primrose  path  of  dalliance. "  "When  we  have 
shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil."  "A  custom  more  honored  in  the 
breach  than  the  observance." 

Probably  some  of  the  graphic  expressions  which  may  be  quoted 
from  his  plays,  and  which  are  now  in  common  use  are  not  of 
his  own  creation,  but  were  discriminatingly  adopted  from  the 
spoken  language  of  his  own  day.  Possibly  he  neither  phrased, 
nor  preserved,  but  merely  used  as  the  generations  have  used 
"eaten  out  of  house  and  home,"  "dead  as  a  door  nail,"  "stiff 
and  stark."  Now  and  then  are  found  words,  as  "holp"  and 

5— S 


60  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

"mighty"  and  "fetch"  that  have  disappeared  from  current 
written  language,  and  survive  only  in  the  rustic  speech. 

The  erratic  training  of  his  boyhood,  the  untamed  doings  of 
his  youth,  his  early  venture  into  tardy  matrimony,  the  hard- 
ships of  his  first  years  in  London,  his  experiences  as  an  actor,  his 
induction  into  the  social  life  of  the  metropolis,  all  these  fitted 
him  for  his  life's  work  and  made  it  possible  for  his  genius  to 
attain  immortal  results.  That  which  he  essayed  was  so  to  por- 
tray all  the  phases  of  life  as  to  make  the  portrayal  interesting 
to  all  who  live  any  of  the  phases  of  life.  And  he  did  not  fail. 

In  the  making  of  his  plays  he  used  the  oft-repeated  stories, 
the  constantly  recurring  incidents  of  history,  the  primary  trage- 
dies and  comedies  in  life  that  are  very  new  and  very  old  to  every 
generation.  Concentrating  all  his  gorgeous  splendor  of  imagina- 
tion, all  his  facile  power  of  words,  he  builded  upon  the  old 
standard  frame  works  of  story  and  brought  forth  that  of  com- 
pelling majesty  or  exquisite  beauty.  Those  who  hear  need  not 
bear  the  burden  of  the  unfamiliar,  but  may  know  a  developing 
delight  like  the  pleasure  born  of  a  recurring  Strain  of  dainty 
melody.  So  rare  his  vision,  he  could  see  the  obvious.  From 
things  plainly  to  be  seen  and  seldom  seen  were  shaped  "wise  saws 
and  modern  instances."  So  patent  the  thought,  so  apt  the 
words,  they  seem  the  reader's  own.  And  thus  he  is  flattered, 
and  flattered,  pleased.  Except  in  a  few  comedies  where  farcical 
situations  were  the  occasion  for  riotous  fun,  the  incidents  por- 
trayed were  such  as  easily  and  naturally  arise.  Save  as  the 
playwright  to  meet  mechanical  requirements  and  to  aid  and 
excite  the  imagination  introduced  the  familiar  ghosts  and  fairies 
of  his  day,  the  plays  were  free  from  psychological  or  other  prob- 
lems and  all  manner  of  mystery  or  mysticism.  At  least  if  they 
were  not  absent,  there  was  always  an  easy  interpretation  that 
excluded  them ;  and  every  play-goer  that  chose  mental  relaxation 
rather  than  mental  exercise  was  without  trouble  in  ignoring  the 
subtler  intellectual  phases  of  Shakespeare's  art.  In  every  play 
there  was  a  perfectly  easily  understood  tale  entirely  interesting 
in  itself,  and  so  developed  as  to  retain  and  increase  the  interest. 
He  used  no  tricks.  Evidently  he  saw  no  merit  in  a  development 
that  brought  suspense  and  surprise.  There  is  an  increasing 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  61 

pleasure  in  watching  the  unfolding  of  a  drama  and  contemplat- 
ing and  forecasting  the  logical  result  that  can  be  little  compen- 
sated for  by  the  momentary  thrill  of  an  unforeseen  conclusion. 
Or,  at  all  events,  if  this  is  not  true  of  those  who  are  mentally 
very  alert,  and  whose  pleasures  come  largely  from  a  gratifying 
consideration  of  their  mental  agility,  it  is  true  of  thje  masses 
of  mankind  who  see  plays  for  simple  amusement  rather  than 
intellectual  exercise. 

The  humorous  and  amusing  element  was  introduced  in  all  but 
three  or  four  of  the  plays.  So  it  is  in  life,  and  so  it  should 
be  when  the  mirror  is  held  up  to  nature.  Few  tragedies  escape 
their  comic  incidents.  And  if  life  be  very  sombre,  all  the  mor« 
reason  for  sunshine  and  the  relieving  smile.  Practically,  too, 
this  playwright,  this  very  capable  business  man,  realized  that 
people  better  love  to  pay  for  the  sweet  experiences  of  pain  when 
a  little  punctuated  with  a  pleasing  mirth.  Besides,  with  all  his 
good  sense,  good  judgment,  with  all.  his  majesty  of  imagination, 
all  his  majesty  of  language,  could  he  not  have  said  of  himself : 

"This  is  a  gift  that  I  have  simple,  simple;  a  foolish  extrava- 
gant spirit  full  of  forms,  figures,  shapes,  objects,  ideas,  appre- 
hensions, motives,  revolutions;  these  are  begot  in  the  ventricle 
of  the  memory,  nourished  in  the  womb  of  pia  mater,  and  de- 
livered upon  the  mellowing  of  occasion"?  (Pre- Whitman,  mak- 
ing sense  the  first  reading.) 

None  knew  better  than  Shakespeare  that: 

"A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue   . 
Of  him  that  makes  it." 

Unhappy  the  man  unable  to  awake  to  the  pert  and  nimble 
spirit  of  mirth,  whose  nature  precludes  enjoyment  of  the  jester's 
innocent  efforts  to  season  life,  or  whose  culture  bears  a  faculty 
»o  critical  that  the  quips  and  quirks,  born  to  bring  a  smile  and 
be  forgot,  lose  power  and  their  cunning  in  his  presence.  The 
most  of  Shakespeare's  public,  as  the  most  of  the  public  today, 
have  pleasure  from  the  labors  of  these  "corruptors  of  words." 
A  "wit  peddler  who  retailed  his  wares,"  for  his  own  practical 


62  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

purposes,  and  for  the  "world's  pleasure  and  increase  of  laugh- 
ter/' he  furnished  all  the  different  types  of  wit  and  humor 
which  have  since  his  day  been  essayed.  Perhaps  he  found  them 
in  use  and  did  nothing  except  produce  acceptable  specimens; 
perhaps  they  have  always  been  in  use  —  a  part  of  the  equipment 
for  life. 

Much  of  all  wit  and  humor  is  malicious  or  malodorous.  And 
so  of  Shakespeare's.  H'e  indulged  in  horseplay  which  passed 
for  comedy  and  coarse  allusions  which  went  for  wit.  But  also 
he  had  a  wit  that  was  concentrated  wisdom.  And  most  of  all  a 
wit  that  is  finest  of  all,  smile-provoking  rather  than  laughter- 
compelling. 

"This  passion  and  the  death  of  a  dear  friend  would  go  near 
to  make  a  man  look  sad.  '  ' 

The  wise  and  steel-tongued  Portia  comments: 

"God  made  him,  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man." 

The   delightful   Portia  says: 

"I  dote  on  his  very  absence." 

And  these  among  many  :  "I  have  a  good  eye,  Uncle  — 
I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight."  "In  the  managing  of  quarrels 
you  may  say  he  is  wise;  for  either  he  avoids  them  with  good 
'discretion,  or  undertakes  them  with  most  Christian-like  fear." 

He  speaks  of  "voluble  delay  in  telling";  and  illustrates: 
"He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity  finer  than  the 
staple  of  his  argument." 

"If  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it.  '  ' 

'  '  A  coward,  a  devout  coward,  religious  in  it.  '  ' 

.  Half  the  lines  of  As  You  Like  It  illustrate  this  delightful 
quality. 

Shakespeare  indulged  constantly  in  puns.  There  is  a  dis- 
position in  those  lacking  capacity  to  make  them  to  speak  of  puns 
as  the  lowest  form  of  wit.  The  criticism  lacks  discrimination. 
A  pun  may  be  very  witty,  or  not  very  witty,  or  not  witty  at  all. 
The  puns  of  the  latter  class  are  in  large  majority;  and  if  the 
observation  were  confined  to  those  of  Shakespeare,  it  would 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  63 

still  be  true.  I  am  not,  however,  sure  they  were  used  unwisely. 
Fun  is  very  easily  provoked  when  people  are  waiting  for  and 
demanding  it.  Mere  iteration  reiterated  may  produce  laughter. 
Current  slang  has  often  only  the  merit  of  repeated  repetition. 
Some  puns  are  witty  at  their  first  use,  and  all  of  them  humorous 
seasoned  to  a  sufficient  staleness. 

If,  however,  in  the  building  of  plays  for  public  use,  Shakes- 
peare utilized  these  incidents  of  human  nature,  he  realized  that 
the  gripping  and  enduring  play  must  have  more  than  wit,  more 
than  humor,  more  than  beauty.  While  his  business  success  was 
promoted  by  his  humor,  and  while  he  has  produced  many  gems 
of  wit  that  are  priceless,  his  lasting  fame  must  depend  prin- 
cipally upon  the  more  substantial  parts  of  the  tragedies  and 
histories. 

In  these  he  dealt  with  the  fundamental  passions,  the  passions 
which  touch  the  lives  of  all  men  and  women.  Love  and  lust, 
hatred,  ambition,  avarice,  revenge,  remorse, — all  these  he  painted 
with  bold  broad  strokes  in  crude  colors,  never  crudely.  But 
not  always  he  so  painted,  for  there  are  dainty  bits,  delicate  in 
detail,  exquisite  in  color.  These  primary  forces  are  portrayed 
in  thoughts  simple  and  direct,  though  ofttimes  in  glorious  bursts  t 
and  rolls  of  words.  Hamlet  is  his  creation,  Hamlet  a  new  man 
to  every  man  at  every  view  of  him.  Yet  Shakespeare  rarely 
essayed  the  subtle  and  complex,  rarely  shaped  a  character  not 
within 'the  easy  range  of  every  understanding. 

If  he  had  written  no  plays  except  the  Comedies,  some  of  them 
would  have  survived;  but  they  would  have  given  fame  to  their 
author  as  a  poet  rather  than  as  a  playwright.  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  is  immortal  because  of  the  poet's  power  "to 
give  to  airy  nothings  a  local  habitation  and  a  name";  because 
of  his  power 

"To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound," 

"clear 
As  a  morning  rose  newly  washed  with  dew. ' ' 

There  is  all  this  and  much  more  in,  the  great  tragedies  which 
have  brought  him  literary  universality  and  immortality.  Little 


64  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

flashes  of  genius  are  at  many  places  to  be  found  by  those  who 
"feed  upon  the  dainties  that  are  bred  in  a  book."  Byron  has 
them,  and  Burns.  Passages  of  Milton  show  genius  or  infinite 
pains.  Then  there  are  David  and  Dante  and  Job  and  Homer. 
And  these  do  not  complete  the  list  of  those  whom  Genius  has 
pecked  at.  Shakespeare  she  "tapped  on  the  shoulder";  nor 
sporadic  nor  exceptional  were  the  manifestations.  There  are 
whole  plays,  as  Hamlet  and  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  in  which 
every  sentence  proclaims  this  servitor  of  the  people  the  favorite. 

No  medium  save  the  drama  would  have  served.  The  pack  of 
genius  is  a  sufficient  burden  for  genius.  It  cannot  carry  per- 
sonal ambitions,  literary  forms,  conventional  literary  restrictions. 
In  these  plays,  where  the  playwright  made  the  men  and  women 
of  his  intellect,  of  his  experience  and  knowledge,  do  and  say 
the  things  that  men  and  women  do  and  say,  the  artificial  limita- 
tions and  barriers  are  ignored  or  broken  down.  Thought  is 
unrestrained.  The  expression  of  thought  is  unrestricted.  The 
playwright  puts  into  the  mouth  of  his  creature  freedom  and 
recklessness  of  speech.  There  is  no  occasion  for  anything  to 
be  haltingly  stated,  weighted  with  exceptions,  pruned.  For  the 
man  of  the  mind  recklessness  is  not  dangerous. 

The  plays  were  written,  moreover,  to  be  played.  If  they  had 
been  written  merely  to  be  read,  they  would  doubtless  have  had 
the  artificiality,  the  wasteful  and  tiresome  adherence  to  form  that 
characterized  Shakespeare's  other  poetry  and  most  poetry.  As 
plays,  they  have  gracious,  pleasing  breaks,  ellipses,  elisions, 
words  not  shaped  into  formal  sentences,  rough  efficient  carriers 
of  thought,  crude  thought  breeders.  There  is  life,  action — all 
the  powerful,  all  the  erratic  motion  of  life. 

Shakespeare's  practical  knowledge  of  the  actor's  art  doubtless 
furnished  a  training  invaluable  in  the  mechanism  of  his  work, 
and  enabled  him  within  the  limits  of  a  page  to  fit  and  test  all 
the  parts  crowded  into  its  lines.  Always,  too,  it  enabled  him  to 
work  with  appreciation  of  the  public's  wishes,  prejudices,  and 
demands,  and  always  with  a  knowledge  of  its  limitations.  These 
limitations  did  not  so  cabin,  crib,  and  confine  as  to  create  em- 
barrassment, for  Shakespeare  realized  that,  outside  the  technical 
details  of  particular  sciences,  the  man  who  understands  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  65 

things  he  would  understandingly  express  must  rather  fear  his 
own  poverty  of  appropriate  words  than  mental  lack  in  those  who 
willingly  listen. 

If  Shakespeare's  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  his  public  contributed  greatly  to  the  greatness  of  his- 
plays,  they  are  responsible  for  some  features  which,  if  they 
cannot  be  kept  out  of  life,  can  at  least  be  advantageously 
eliminated  from  the  stage.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  of  a  dram- 
atist that  he  will  disregard  the  conventions  of  his  time,  or 
fail  to  go  as  far  as  the  conventions  will  permit.  The  Elizabethan 
period  was  not  characterized  by  delicacy  of  speech.  It  recog- 
nized no  reason  why  a  spade  should  not  be  called  a  spade. 
There  is  no  reason  now.  But  there  were  reasons  enough  then, 
as  now,  why  certain  words  should  not  have  persistent  and  un- 
necessary public  use.  The  drama  and  the  book  of  our  own  day 
are  not  distinguished  by  delicacy  of  thought.  There  is  not  a 
thing  so  sacred,  nor  yet  a  thing  so  far  from  holy,  that  it  can 
not  be  the  subject  of  discussion  in  any  character  of  company, 
at  any  time,  in  any  place.  But  if  we  lack  in  delicacy  of  thought 
and  modesty  of  conversation,  there  is  a  becoming  daintiness; 
of  words,  a  saving  euphemistic  linguistic  hypocrisy. 

Shakespeare's  knowledge  of  what  some  of  his  patrons  wanted 
and  what  all  of  them  would  stand  resulted  in  a  very  great 
deal  of  coarseness  and  even  an  ample  excess  of  obscenity.  But 
the  value  of  Shakespeare 's  compendium  of  life  incidents,  life 
emotions,  life's  manners  of  doing  would  be  greatly  reduced 
if  his  audiences  had  been  more  modestly  discriminating.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  in  many  cases  he  could  have  developed  the 
character  intended  without  indulgence  in  boldness  of  obscenity, 
but  those  who  have  come  into  contact  with  many  phases  of  life 
will  excuse  much  to  have  all  the  aspiring  Falstaffe  of  the 
memory  done  into  one  character  lacking  not  at  all  in  complete- 
ness. And  always  he  was  purveying  to  the  public. 

After  all,  the  dramatist  may  not  make  men  without  giving 
them  all  the  characteristics  of  men.  Shakespeare  peopled  a 
little  world.  This  little  world  of  words  was  to  be  as  the  larger 
world  of  flesh  and  blood  and  deeds.  He  did  not  take  a  char- 
acteristic or  an  attribute,  clothe  it  with  adjectives,  give  it  a. 


66  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

name,  and  try  to  have  it  pass  for  a  man.  He  invested  the  peo- 
ple of  his  plays  with  the  ordinary  incidents  and  characteristics 
of  mankind,  and  emphasized  some  one  or  more  of  them  as  nature 
does  for  most  men.  He  made  men  men  could  understand.  Each 
human  being  has  an  individual  conception  of  human  nature. 
These  conceptions  vary.  Of  a  Shakespearean  creation  different 
men  have  widely  different  views.  So  they  would  of  a  man  in 
the  flesh.  Created  he  men  in  the  image  of  the  men  created  in 
the  image  of  God. 

He  tilted  with  history.  And  won.  The  Caesar  of  the  play 
has  superseded  the  Caesar  of  history.  Perhaps  he  was  more 
nearly  the  Caesar  of  fact.  And  so  of  Coriolanus,  Richard  III, 
Henry  VIII,  Brutus.  The  Macbeth  of  history  is  obscured  by  the 
mists  of  centuries;  Shakespeare's  Macbeth  will  not  be  forgot. 
Demosthenes  was  not  so  great  an  orator  as  Mark  Antony.  Ham- 
let is  admitted  among  the  intellectual  of  Earth,  though  alienists 
and  psychologists  raise  question  as  to  his  complete  sanity.  Few 
names  are  so  well  known  as  Hamlet,  Othello  and  Shylock.  The 
gifted  women  of  time  do  not  rank  with  Portia,  Miranda,  Viola 
and  Rosalind,  and  the  rest  of  the  brilliant  group  to  whom 
Shakespeare  has  given,  by  words,  being  and  beauty  and  intellect, 
chastity  and  all  goodness  and  all  things  lovable  in  woman. 
Portia's  masterly  rescue  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice  is  uncon- 
sciously used  as  an  argument  in  favor  of  women  entering  the 
learned  professions  and  the  law.  Highest  achievement  in  the 
art  of  painting  with  words  is  the  limning  of  Lady  Macbeth. 
Delicately  minute  as  a  Velasquez,  bold  in  action  as  a  Detaille 
or  a  Messonier,  a  picture  of  the  savage  love,  the  unselfish  am- 
bition, the  calculating  cruelty,  the  fearsome  courage,  the  fierce 
tenderness  that  may  be  woman.  Savagely  ambitious  for  the 
man  she  loved,  Lady  Macbeth  screwed  his  courage  to  the  stick- 
ing-place,  and  compelled  with  ruthless  words  the  double  crime 
.of  murder  and  ingratitude: 

"I  have  given  suck  and  know 

How   tender    'tis   to   love   the   babe   that   milks   me: 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck 'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out." 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  67 

When  the  deep  damnation  of  the  bloody  deed  strikes  terror  tq 
the  partner  of  her  crime,  she  takes  the  dagger  from  his  shaking 
hand,  and  makes  it  perjured  witness  to  another's  guilt.  When 
the  ghost  of  Banquo  comes  unbidden  to  the  feast,  she  prays 
the  guests  be  gone,  and  with  tender  care  and  capable  ministers 
to  a  mind  diseased.  Comes  at  last  all  this  woman  strength  to 
woman  weakness,  to  look  upon  the  damned  spot  that  will  not 
out,  to  know  that  all  the  perfume  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  the 
little  hand.  But  always,  through  the  brooding  thought  of  crime, 
through  the  bloody  deed  of  crime,  through  the  fearful  punish- 
ment, always  a  woman! 

Not  alone  has  Shakespeare  put  in  mighty  words  the  majesty 
of  his  imaginings;  he  has  nurtured  the  men  and  women  of  his 
brain  that  they  need  no  help  from  masters  of  the  mimic  art  to 
take  their  place  among  those  who  live  and  move  and  have  their 
being.  The  master  playwright  has  made  them,  and  given  them 
immortality  to  add  somewhat  to  the  lives  of  each  of  us  in  the 
little  time  we  tread  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Earth. 


RHYTHMIC  ELEMENTS  IN  ENGLISH,  WITH  ILLUSTRA- 
TIONS FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

BY  JAMES  W.  BRIGHT 

Dr.  Furnivall  once  expressed  to  me  his  conviction  that  any 
interpretation  of  the  principles  of  English  versification  brought 
forward  as  having  been  unduly  neglected  in  prosodic  theory 
carries  the  weight  of  a  strong  presumption  against  it.  He  be- 
lieved the  externalities  of  English  versification  to  be  for  the  most 
part  indisputably  simple;  and  as  to  whatever  peculiarities  may 
pertain  to  the  established  practice,  these  he  thought  had  too 
long  been  competently  studied  to  leave  a  margin  for  a  reasonable 
suspicion  that  something  of  importance  had  escaped  expert  at- 
tention. In  this  judgment  there  is  more  than  a  moiety  of  truth. 
The-  essential  simplicity  of  the  external  rules  of  the  art  cannot 
be  denied.  The  uninstructed  man  is  found  writing  good  verses, 
that  is,  verses  that  are  accurately  measured  and  pleasingly 
rhythmic.  When  a  Southey  exercises  himself  in  an  indulgent 
estimation  of  uneducated  poets,  he  will,  like  the  self-styled 
"Lord  Keeper  of  the  King's  taste,"  have  little  or  no  occasion 
to  urge  the  prime  necessity  of  knowing  one's  Bysshe.  Self- 
taught  poets  seldom  commit  irregularities  in  verse-stress  and 
rhythm.  Nor  will  children  instinctively  accept  lines  that  are 
faulty  in  cadence.  They  will  recite  their  "rimes  and  jingles" 
in  conformity  to  a  strictly  rhythmic  pulsation,  until  they  become 
bewildered, /  with  advancing  years,  by  the  obtrusive  and  pe- 
dantic admonition  to  read  poetry  as  nearly  as  possible  as  they 
would  read  prose.  It  is  also  true  that  of  all  the  effects  of 
stress  and  rhythm  that  may  be  comprehensively  classed  as  pe- 
culiarities of  English  versification  none  can  be  declared  to  have 
escaped  observation  and  comment.  At  this  point  Dr.  Furnivall's 
conviction  shades  off  into  benevolent  confidence  in  expert  opin- 
ion. This  would  be  satisfactory  enough,  if  the  disturbing  fact 
could  be  ignored  that  expert  opinion  is  at  variance  with  itself, 
as  is  shown  by  the  uninterrupted  stream  of  articles,  monographs, 
and  books  in  which  the  principles  of  the  art  are  variously  ex- 
pounded. 

[68] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  69 

According  to  the  foregoing  statement,  therefore,  there  is  much 
in  the  art  of  English  versification  that  is  unmistakably  simple, 
but  also  much,  or  at  least  something,  that  is  presumably  so  com- 
plex, or  special,  or  subtle  as  to  beget  diversity  of  doctrine  and 
its  inevitable  accompaniment,  endless  controversy.  In  this  mat- 
ter there  is,  however,  no  variation  from  the  rule  that  controversy 
is  usually  ardent  and  irreconcilable  in  direct  ratio  to  the  dif- 
ference between  the  points  from  which  the  subject  is  approached. 
To  the  same  degree  differences  in  convictions  are  kept  alive  by 
neglect  of  the  initial  requirement  in  a  discussion,  that  of  clear 
definition  of  the  matter  to  be  considered,  and  close  agreement 
as  to  the  specific  factors  that  are  to  be  admitted  into  the  problem. 
Moreover,  not  the  least  hindrance  to  a  closer  agreement  among 
students  of  versification  has  been  a  very  general  assumption  that 
what,  for  convenience,  have  just  now  been  designated  the  pe- 
culiarities of  the  English  code  are  strictly  so  peculiar  to  English 
that  the  subjective  judgments  of  a  reader  responsive  to  artistic 
effects  are  more  trustworthy  than  technical  evidence  that  may  be 
cited  from  the  wider  region  of  rhythmic  art.  It  is,  of  course', 
not  to  be  denied  that  this  subjectivity  of  the  reader  is  of  the 
highest  value,  but  it  may  be  invalidated  by  preconceptions,  es- 
pecially by  an  attitude  of  mind  that  does  not  admit  the  im- 
portance of  viewing  the  principles  or  conventions  of  the  art  in 
the  light  of  the  historic  processes  of  its  development,  codification, 
and  transmission. 

What  then  is  simple  in  the  making  of  an  English  verse  ?  The 
question  is  answered  with  sufficient  completeness  for  the  present 
purpose  by  pointing  to  the  rhythmic  character  of  a  "  regular 
line, ' '  a  line  in  which  all  the  verse-accents  fall  on  primary  word- 
accents  of  approximately  equal  weight.  It  is  a  common  observa- 
tion that  lines  of  this  type  do  not  (except  for  special  effect) 
occur  in  extended  and  unbroken  sequence.  Usually  some  varia- 
tion of  stress  is  employed  to  modify  the  monotonous  beat  on 
uniformly  strong  word-accents,  and  to  secure  thereby  a  pleas- 
ing variety  in  the  melody  of  successive  lines.  A  passage  taken 
at  random  will  illustrate  the  point : 


70  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

When  remedies  are  past,  the  griefs  are  ended 
By  seeing  the  worst,  which  late  on  hopes  depended. 
To  mourn  a  mischief  that  is  past  and  gone 
Is  the  next  way  to  draw  new  mischief  on. 
What  cannot  be  preserved  when  fortune  takes, 
Patience  her  injury  a  mockery  makes. 
The  robb'd  that  smiles  steals  something  from  the  thief; 
He  robs  himself  that  spends  a  bootless  grief. 

Othello  I,  iii,  202ff. 

This  is  a  harmonious  passage.  The  melody  of  each  line  is 
like  that  of  every  other  line,  and  yet  there  is  no  instance  in 
which-  two  lines  in  strictness  agree  in  having  identically  the 
same  melody.  The  variations  are  slight  but  effective;  and  only 
the  last  line  is,  according  to  the  preceding  definition,  absolutely 
' '  regular. ' ' 

Taking  the  last  line  as  an  exact  notation  of  the  ''normal 
rhythm,"  and  applying  "routine  scansion"  to  the  other  lines 
of  the  cited  passage,  a  view  is  given  of  the  means  by  which  va- 
riation in  line-melody  has  been  produced.  In  the  order  of  the 
lines,  the  last  syllable  of  remedies  receives  a  verse-stress;  seeing 
represents  a  "resolved  stress"  (the  two  syllables  are  combined 
under  the  stress;  the  first  couplet  has  also  feminine  rime)  ;  that 
is  stressed;  Is  the  next  way  represents  perhaps  a  trochaic  be- 
ginning -,'be  is  stressed;  Patience  her  injury  is  either  a  trochaic 
beginning  or  (more  probably)  has  a  stress  on  the  second  syllable 
of  Patience,  and  there  is  a  stress  on  the  final  syllable  of  injury 
as  contrasted  with  mockery,  the  last  two  syllables  of  which  con- 
stitute a  resolved  thesis;  in  the  seventh  line,  the  preposition 
from  is  stressed. 

Let  it  be  noticed  now  that  the  lines  thus  subjected  to  routine 
or  "normal"  scansion  exhibit  no  device  of  stress  that  is  peculiar 
to  Shakespeare's  practice.  They  are  rhythmically  true  to  the 
principles  of  English  versification  from  Chaucer  to  the  present 
day.  The  faultless  harmony  and  the  pleasing  diversity  of  mel- 
ody are  just  what  the  reader  has  always  demanded  and  still 
demands  of  good  poetry;  and,  if  not  unfortunately  schooled 
into  a  fantastic  notion  of  rhythm,  the  responsive  reader  must  be 
believed  to  find  artistic  satisfaction  in  the  scansion  as  described. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  71 

But,  if  it  be  admitted,  as  it  must  be,  that  the  cited  passage  is 
sufficiently  representative  of  Shakespeare's  versification  and  yet 
represents  no  aspect  of  the  art  (within  the  limjts  here  kept  in 
mind)  that  distinguishes  his  practice  from  that  of  other  English 
poets  of  whatever  period,  it  becomes  necessary  at  this  point  to 
give  a  view  of  the  specific  purpose  of  this  discussion.  In  other 
words,  if,  in  respect  of  externalities  that  determine  mere  scan- 
sion, Shakespeare's  versification  is  indistinguishable  from  Eng- 
lish versification  in  general,  it  follows  that  a  specifically  Shake- 
spearian problem  in  this  art  must  lie  in  details  that  are  sub- 
ordinate to  general  principles. 

Subordinate  details  of  a  poet's  versification  have  in  many 
instances  been  minutely  studied.  In  the  case  of  Shakespeare, 
his  works  as  a  whole  and  many  plays  taken  separately  have 
been  scrutinized  in  this  manner.  A  usual  practice  of  editors  of 
a  single  play  is  to  find  a  place  in  an  introduction  or  an  appendix 
for  an  exhibition  of  the  poet's  mode  of  versifying  in  the  par- 
ticular text,  and  additional  references  to  the  matter  will  be  sup- 
plied in  commentary  or  notes.  This  procedure  is  in  itself  good, 
for  English  poets  em-ploy  the  language  at  different  periods  of 
its  history,  and  the  fashion  of  word-accent  (and  consequently 
of  verse-stress)  has  changed  from  period  to  period. 

< 

Ye  knowe  eek,  that  in  form  of  speech  is  chaunge 
With-inne  a  thousand  yeer,  and  wordes  tho 
That  hadden  prys,  now  wonder  nyce  and  straunge 
Us  thinketh  hem;  and  yet  they  spake  hem  so. 

It  is  also  true  that  the  works  of  some  poets  may  with  special 
profit  be  studied  with  reference  to  individual  progress  (or  de- 
cline) in  the  art  of  versification;  and  viewed  from  this  point 
Shakespeare's  practice  has  been  regarded  as  showing  highly 
significant  changes.  But  the  specific  purpose  of  this  discussion 
is  not  to  be  concerned  with  any  special  characteristics  of 
Shakespeare's  art.  It  is  merely  to  show,  on  the  one  hand. 
witH  the  help  of  a  few  representative  illustrations  that  his  ver- 
sification is  normal  in  respect  of  all  that  pertains  to  the  un- 
broken tradition  in  the  use  of  the  rhythmic  elements  of  the 
language;  on  the  other  hand,  attention  will  be  directed  chiefly 


72  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

to  the  underlying  necessity  of  understanding  the  character 
of  the  more  important  of  these  rhythmic  elements.  The  discus- 
sion may  be  interpreted  as  an  appeal  to  the  readers  of  the  poet 
to  set  aside  all  indoctrinated  hindrances  to  an  unbiased  read- 
ing of  his  lines  in  accordance  with  the  notation  given  in  what 
has  been  called  the  "normal  line,"  and  to  fit  themselves  for 
the  correct  reading  of  all  the  poets  by  historic  inquiry  into  the 
character  of  the  native  system  of  accentuation  and  emphasis. 

Prosodists  have  been  clever  and  industrious  in  devising  hind- 
rances to  a  ready  understanding  of  the  rhythmic  elements  of  the 
language,  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  English  versification. 
Although  these  elements  are  easy  of  recognition,  and  these  prin- 
ciples inherently  simple  and  easily  verified  by  the  average  reader, 
all  has  been  not  a  little  mystified  by  sophistications  so  as  to 
persuade  a  large  class  of  readers  that  it  is  hardly  possible  in 
the  case  of  this  art  to  reduce  principles  and  conventionalities 
to  a  simple  and  systematic  grammar. 

A  more  or  less  close  relationship  unites  many  of  the  unwar- 
ranted tenets  of  prosodists,  which  just  now  have  been  described 
as  hindrances  in  the  way  of  correct  progress  in  understanding 
the  principles  of  English  versification.  Thus,  when  the  rule 
is  accepted  to  read  poetry  like  prose,  a  wide  and  inviting  margin 
for  consequent  theorizing  is  spread  before  the  ingenious  mind; 
and  surprisingly  fascinating  questions  arise  to  evoke  replies 
that  come  to  be  valued  for  subtlety  that  is  mistaken  for  sound- 
ness. If  poetry  is  to  be  read  like  prose,  let  it  be  asked,  why  is 
it  not  written  like  prose?  How  can  there  be  two  methods  of 
writing,  but  one  only  of  reading?  The  questioning  is  artless, 
but  the  reply  advances  step  by  step  in  fineness  of  distinctions. 
It  is  replied  that  the  difference  in  method  of  writing  will  show 
through  the  common  method  of  reading;  that  the  art  of  prose 
and  that  of  verse  will  remain  distinguishable.  The  interrela- 
tion of  the  two  arts  must  now  be  defined,  and  the  point  is  soon 
reached  at  which  the  rich  suggestiveness  of  the  subject  gives  it 
rank  with  those  that,  by  common  consent,  will  always  keep  •con- 
troversy alive. 

To  begin  a  series  of  brief  comments  on  some  aspects  of  this 
endless  strife,  attention  may  be  directed  to  an  article  entitled 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  73 

"The  Rhythmic  Relation  of  Prose  and  Verse  (The  Foru-m,  May, 
1909).  The  writer,  Mj*.  Brian  Hooker,  rests  his  contention  in 
the  following  statement :  '  *  Tennyson  once  said  in  reply  to  those 
who  objected  to  the  complexity  of  his  verse:  'If  they  would 
only  read  it  naturally,  like  Prose,  it  would  all  come  right.'  : 
And  Mr.  Hooker  concludes  his  article  in  full  confidence  that  he 
has  rightly  understood  the  words  of  Tennyson.  "It  cannot  be 
too  strongly  emphasized, ' '  he  writes,  ' '  that  the  whole  science  of 
Prosody  rests  upon  Tennyson's  principle  that  English  verse  is 
to  be  scanned  precisely  as  it  is  naturally  read  to  bring  out  the 
sense."  This  conviction  is  finally  enforced  by  the  concrete  de- 
claration that  ' '  The  man  who  scans  the  opening  line  of  Paradise 
Lost  without  stressing  the  word  first  will  never  learn  any  more 
(sic!)  about  verse. " 

Mr.  Hooker  has,  indeed,  in  his  own  way,  shown  how  funda- 
mentally important  it  is  to  test  the  rule  to  read  poetry  like  prose ; 
but  has  he  understood  Tennyson's  reply?  Would  not  the  poet's 
quick  perceptions  have  led  him  to  discern  in  the  singularity  of  an 
objection  to  "the  complexity  of  his  verse"  readers  that  are  for 
the  most  part  superficially  curious  and  perhaps  rather  pre- 
tentiously desirous  to  learn?  With  this  class  of  objectors  in 
mind,  he  could  not  have  done  otherwise  than  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject (whether  graciously  or  not)  with  a  class-room  precept, 
which  he  believed  could  not  do  much  harm.  But  whatever  in- 
terpretation be  read  into  Mr.  Hooker's  citation,  it  is  to  be  re- 
membered that  Mrs.  Ritchie  has  reported  how  Tennyson  himself 
read  his  lines:-  "Reading  is  it?  One  can  hardly  describe  it. 
It  is  a  sort  of  mystical  incantation,  a  chant  in  which  every 
note  rises  and  falls  and  reverberates  again."1  Tennyson  might 
have  replied,  'sing  the  verse  as  it  is  written';  but  that  would 
have  betrayed  a  lack  of  discernment  of  which  he  was  incapable. 
He  knew  that  many  do  not  or  can  not  sing  well  enough  to  suit 
his  delicate  cadences.  As  for  Mr.  Hooker's  confident  judgment 
with  reference  to  the  stress  of  the  word  first  in  the  opening 

i  Annie  Ritchie,  Records  of  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  and  Browning,  1893; 
quoted  in  An  English  Miscellany,  presented  to  Dr.  Furnivall  in  honour 
of  his  seventy-fifth  birthday,  Oxford,  1901,  p.  27. 


74  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

line  of  Paradise  Lost,  that  exposes  a  fault  in  singing  that  has 
come  to  be  widely  accepted  as  a  virtue. 

The  problem  in  hand  is  clearly  indicated.  It  is  assumed  that 
the  rhythmic  art  of  versification  has  a  grammar  of  definite  rules 
and  principles,  by  which  it  is  distinguished  from  the  art  of 
prose-writing.  But  it  is  also  true  that  verse-form  is  not  ex- 
clusively a  mere  externality  of  poetry.  It  is  an  all-important 
truth  that  rhythm  is  an  effective  "cause"  of  poetry,  contributing 
to  its  elevating  and  transporting  effects  and  to  its  power;  that  it 
is  a  help  to  inspiration  and  ' '  echoes  and  answers  to  fundamental 
factors  in  our  emotional  life. ' "  When,  therefore,  the  principles 
of  verse-rhythm  are  handled  capriciously,  there  must  result  a 
perversion  of  the  essential  characteristics  of  the  supreme"  art 
of  poetry.3 

Routine  scansion  is  very  generally  understood  to  result  in 
a  monotony  of  cadence  that  cannot  be  reconciled  with  the  plain 
demands  of  the  aesthetic  sense.  So  mechanical  a  method  does 
not  comport — this  is  the  argument — with  the  simple  assumption 
of  a  refined  and  subtle  art.  The  poet  indeed  constantly  keeps 
in  mind  the  monotony  of  the  normal  line,  but  chiefly  to  control 
him  in  the  making  of  artistically  necessary  variations  from  it. 
This  is  the  theory  that  is  advocated  in  opposition  to  routine 
scansion.  Its  acceptance  assigns  logical  consistency  to  the 
stresses,  for  verse-stress  becomes  identical  with  the  emphasis 
of  prose:  But  is  not  this  a  mechanical  avoidance  of  monotony  ? 
To  allow  the  feet  throughout  a  line  to  change  in  rhythmic  char- 
acter in  free  compliance  with  logical  emphasis,  as  the  reader 
may  judge  that  emphasis, — for  the  poet  is  without  a  device  to 

2I  take  pleasure  in  thus  finding  an  occasion  to  refer  to  an  article  on 
the  question,  "What,  do  we  mean  by  poetry?"  (The  Unpopular  Re- 
view, July-Sept.,  1916.)  The  writer  defends  regularity  of  rhythm  and 
strictness  of  verse-form  with  philosophic  and  artistic  insight,  and  the 
title  of  the  periodical  itself  contributes  an  inference  that  is  not  with- 
out a  meaning. 

»A  caprice  may,  of  course,  become  conventionalized,  but  that  is 
another  matter.  The  vers  libre  may  seem  to  be  far  removed  from  the 
standard  requirements  of  'verse,'  but  it  owes  its  tolerance  and  its  best 
effects  to  a  considerable  degree  to  the  retained  device  of  line-arrange- 
ment, of  the  marked  'turning'  at  the  line-end. 


,   Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  75 

indicate  his  own  notion  of  the  emphasis, — is  not  this  an  external 
and  mechanical  subterfuge  ?  And  what  of  the  principle  of  con- 
ventionalized compactness  and  restraint,  which  is  supposed  to  be 
fundamental  in  the  arts?  Is  the  figure  in  gebundene  Rede  mis- 
applied ? 

It  is  all  a  matter,  let  it  be  said,  of  aesthetic  and  pleasing 
effects,  and  surely  puerile  monotony  condemns  itself.  But  does 
routine  scansion  result  inevitably  in  puerile  monotony  ?  Is  that 
the  effect  produced  by  reading  the  passage  cited  above  according 
to  the  subjoined  indication  of  the  stresses?  Does  "conflict"  in 
the  Latin  hexameter  hold  the  cadence  in  subjection  to  an  artless 
regularity  in  the  temporal  recurrence  of  the  beats,  and  to  an 
intolerable  sameness  in  the  melodic  effects  of  the  line?  Now 
"conflict"  implies  that  a  stress  is  placed  on  a  syllable  that  does 
not  carry  the  chief  word-accent  but  an  accent  subordinated  to 
it — a  secondary  word-accent ;  or  the  stress  may  be  placed  on 
a  word  or  syllable  that  is  usually  unemphatic  in  prose.  To 
these  is  to  be  added  the  still  larger  group  of  stresses  on  syllables 
with  a  secondary  word-accent,  employed  without  occasioning 
"conflict."  To  admit  the  artistic  use  of  these  devices  of  stress 
is  to  admit  the  argument  in  defense  of  routine  scansion.  The 
resultant  modulations  of  line-melody  then  become  analogous  to 
the  modulations  of  a  musical  composition,  in  the  rendering  of 
which  there  is  no  thought  either  of  wilfully  ignoring  the  reg- 
ularity of  the  beats  (as  required  by  the  time-signature),  or  of 
giving  them,  in  a  mechanical  way,  uniform  weight  or  prom- 
inence. No  modern  Aristoxenos  has  yet  appeared  to  effect  an 
undisputed  recognition  of  this  fundamental  analogy  (with  its 
restricted  implications)  between  the  rhythms  of  poetry  and 
the  rhythms  of  music. 

As  in  all  serious  inquiry,  preconceived  notions  must  be  dis- 
missed or  at  least  held  in  abeyance  in  an  honest  effort  to  test 
the  validity  of  the  method  of  scansion  now  to  be  more  minutely 
described.  This  will  be  found  to  be  somewhat  difficult  by  read- 
ers accustomed  to  cherish  an  unreasoned  conviction  that  because 
of  their  fine  sensibilities  their  subjective  judgments  in  matters 
of  artistic  response  must  be  superior  to  conclusions  reached  by 
the  dull  and  plodding  processes — as  they  regard  them —  of  the 

6— S 


76  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

grammarian.     Their  defense,  in  the  words  of  Chaucer,  who  of 
all  the  great  poets  does  most  surely  not  sustain  it,  is : 

I  can  no  more  expounde  in  this  matere; 
I  lerne  song,  I  can  but  smal  grammere. 

More  than  that, — the  argument  may  run, — if  a  technical  knowl- 
edge of  the  language  is  required  to  understand  the  principles 
of  English  verse-rhythm,  how  have  the  poets  acquired  mastery 
of  the  art?  Aristotle  answers  the  question.  H'e  is  discussing 
the  acquisition  of  virtue  (Ethics,  Bk.  II),  and  assumes  that  some- 
one might  say,  in  contradiction  of  his  argument,  "if  men  are 
doing  the  actions,  they  have  the  respective  virtues  already,  just 
as  men  are  grammarians  or  musicians  when  they  "do  the  actions 
of  either  art."  Be  meets  the  objection  by  suggesting  "that  it 
is  not  so  even  in  the  case  of  the  arts  referred  to ;  because  a  man 
may  produce  something  grammatical  either  by  chance  or  by  the 
suggestion  of  another;  but  then  only  will  he  be  a  grammarian 
when  he  not  only  produces  something  grammatical  but  does  so 
grammar-wise,  i.  e.,  in  virtue  of  the  grammatical  knowledge  he 
himself  possesses."  This  is  pertinent  to  the  present  discussion. 
That  the  poets  have  been  the  most  intense  students  of  their  fel- 
low craftsmen, — is  not  a  large  portion  of  literary  history  devoted 
to  making  this  clear,  to  showing  how  much  one  has  learned  from 
another?  As  diligent  and  discriminating  students  of  the  works 
of  predecessors,  the  poets  have  become  finely  responsive  to  all  the 
effects  of  rhythm,  and  by  imitation,  suggestion,  and  persistent 
practice  have  acquired  the  art  of  versification  in  accordance  with 
the  finest  perception  of  the  rhythmic  permissibilities  of  the  lan- 
guage. This  usual  experience  does  not  exclude  a  varying  degree 
of  attention  to  the  rules  and  principles. of  the  elementary  gram- 
mar of  the  art,  but  it  gives  no  assurance  necessarily  of  an  inquiry 
into  the  remotest  technicalities  of  the  subject.  The  pertinent 
analogy  may  be  repeated :  Correct  speech  does  not  give  assur- 
ance of  a  technical  grammarian. 

It  should  now  be  stated  that  the  following  description  of  ele- 
ments available  for  stress  in  English  versification  is  submitted 
for  consideration  to  two  principal  classes  of  students  of  prosody. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  11 

One  of  these  classes  has  already  been  brought  to  mind.  It  con- 
sists of  those  who  deny  that  routine  scansion  is  the  artistic 
method  of  reading  poetry.  The  other  class — and  this  not  a  small 
class — follows  the  method,  but  neglects  to  point  out  the  inherent 
characteristics  of  the  language  underlying  it  and  making  it  artis- 
tically acceptable  to  the  ear. 

What  the  unbiased  reader  must  regard  with  least  surprise  an.l 
be  most  ready  to  accept  as  inevitable  is  the  "conflict"  with  the 
primary  word-accent  when  the  verse-stress  (ictus)  strikes  the 
second  member  of  substantive  compounds,  such  as  daylight,  mid- 
night, eye-glass,  and  thus  consigns  the  first  member  to  the  thesis. 

O  weary  night,  O  long  and  tedious  night, 
Abate  thy  hours!     Shine  comforts  from  the  east, 
That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  daylight, 
From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest: 

M.  N.  D.  Ill,  ii,  431ff. 

Nay,  then,  thou  mock'st  me.    Thou  shalt  buy  this  dear, 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  daylight  see: 

Id.  Ill,  ii,  26-27. 

A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 

Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 

Tempest  I,  ii,  128,  228. 

Ha'  not  you  seen,  Camillo, — 
But  that's  past  doubt,  you  have,  or  your  eye-glass 
Is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn, — or  heard, — 
W.  T.  I,  ii,  267ff. 

The  prevailing  "regularity"  of  these  lines  co-ordinates  the 
rhythmic  correctness  of  variation  from  the  usual  word-accent 
with  the  agreement  of  word-stress  and  ictus.  In  other  words,  the 
poet  has  given  the  clearest  indication,  by  the  rhythm  of  the  line- 
end,  that  there  is  no  "inversion  of  the  foot"  to  avoid  placing,  at 
discretion,  a  stress  on  the  second  syllable  of  the  underscored 
compounds.  Let  the  following  lines  also  be  scanned  now: 

Yon  light  is  not  day-light,  I  know  it,  I: 
It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 

R.  and  J.  Ill,  v,  12ff. 


78  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

We  have  not  spoke  as  yet  of  torch-bearers 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer 

Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer 

M.  of  V.  II,  iv,  5,  24,  40. 

Here  the  stress  just  proved  by  the  line-end  is  employed  within 
the  line;  and  by  the  same  evidence  it  is  shown  that  a  compound 
of  the  type  represented  by  torch-bearer  may  correctly  be  stressed 
on  the  last  syllable  (-er).  The  added  result  of  what  has  thus 
been  observed  is  that  each  of  the  three  syllables  of  a  compound 
word  like  torch-bearer  is  available  for  the  rhythmic  stress,  and, 
conversely,  each  of  these  syllables  is  available  for  the  thesis  of 
a  rhythmic  foot.  The  prosodist  must  now  reckon  with  a  gram- 
matical principle  of  fundamental  importance.  The  syllables  of 
the  language  are  accented  according  to  inherent  and  historically 
perpetuated  laws  and  conventionalities.  Taken  separately,  words 
have  a  grammatical  word-accent;  in  connected  discourse,  sen- 
tence-emphasis establishes  degrees  of  prominence  and  of  suppres- 
sion of  this  accent  of  the  independent  word ;  and  in  versification 
both  word-accent  and  sentence-emphasis  are  controlled  by  the 
requirements  of  artistic  rhythm. 

Word-accent  and  its  function  in  verse-rhythm  direct  attention 
to  aspects  of  the  inherent  character  of  the  language  that  should 
reward  study  with  intellectual  and  aesthetic  profit  and  pleasure. 
Dr.  Johnson  confirms  this  statement  by  the  full  import  of  the 
lament  that  "the  want  of  certain  rules  for  the  pronunciation  of 
former  ages,  has  made  us  wholly  ignorant  of  the  metrical  art 
of  our  ancient  poets"  (The  Plan  of  a  Dictionary  of  tlie  English 
Language,  1747)  ;  and  by  his  confessed  inability  to  discover  an 
"antecedent  reason  for  difference  of  accent  in  the  two  words 
dolorous  and  sonorous,"  as  confirmed  by  Milton's  verse-stress, 
dolorous  sonorous.  The  great  lexicographer  labored  to  give  due 
consideration  to  all  accessible  knowledge  relating  to  facts  and 
principles  of  the  language,  but  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  an  un- 
developed state  of  philological  science.  To-day  "certain  rules 
for  the  pronunciation  of  former  ages"  are  well  understood,  and 
the  historic  method  of  investigation  by  which  they  have  been  dis- 
covered has  effected  a  quickened  sense  for  close  and  unbroken 
sequence  in  linguistic  phenomena ;  indeed,  it  has  so  shortened  dis- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  79 

tances  in  time  as  to  stamp  the  designation  "former  ages"  with 
a  mark  of  peculiar  inappropriateness  in  this  connection.  More- 
over, linguistic  science  has  exalted  the  importance  of  accentua- 
tion as  a  principal  feature  in  that  peculiar  character  of  a  lan- 
guage by  which  it  maintains  itself  through  successive  genera- 
tions. To  say  nothing  of  the  results  in  comparative  grammar 
attained  by  more  exact  attention  to  the  laws  and  effects  of  ac- 
centuation, it  has  become  clear  that  the  study  of  an  individual 
language  must  be  based  on  the  recognition  of  a  system  or  code 
of  accentuation  that  has  been  developed  as  one  of  its  main  char- 
acteristics. Can  anything,  therefore,  be  more  obviously  true  as 
an  initial  tenet  than  this,  that  versification  in  a  language  is  in- 
timately bound  up  with  the  special  system  of  accentuation  of  that 
language  ?  And  if  a  special  prosody  is  founded  on  a  special  sys- 
tem of  accentuation,  does  it  not  behoove  the  prosodist  to  reckon 
first  of  all  with  that  system?  This  insistence  on  the  obvious 
must  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  those  prosodists  who,  in  their  treat- 
ment of  accentual  versification,  afford  no  evidence  of  an  ade- 
quate understanding  of  that  chapter  of  grammar  from  which  the 
art  derives  its  specific  designation. 

This  is  not  an  occasion  for  a  detailed  report  of  the  laws  and 
principles  of  English  accentuation ;  and  nothing  more  shall  be 
attempted  than  an  indication  of  some  of  the  simple  facts  of  Eng- 
lish grammar  that  are  at  the  same  time  of  first  importance  in 
a  consideration  of  the  basis  of  the  conventionalities  established 
in  the  rhythmic  use  of  the  language.  What  shall  be  added  in  this 
way  is,  therefore,  merely  to  enforce  the  appeal  to  the  student  to 
withhold  no  degree  of  earnest  attention  from  all  the  historic  phe- 
nomena of  English  accentuation  observable  in  both  prose  and 
verse. 

English  accentuation  (which  is  Germanic  in  character)  makes 
prominent  in  utterance  the  radical  or  most  significant  syllable 
of  a  word,  which,  in  uncompounded  words  is  the  first  syllable. 
This  law  of  accenting  the  first  syllable  underlies  the  accentua- 
tion of  a  substantive  compound.  The  first  member  receives  the 
primary  accent,  and  the  second  member  with  equal  regularity 
receives  a  lessened  degree  of  stress,  which  is  called  the  secondary 
accent.  The  first  member  of  a  verbal  compound  is,  however,  too 


80  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

subordinate  in  meaning  to  receive  the  primary  accent,  to  which  its 
position  in  the  word  would  otherwise  entitle  it.  The  primary  ac- 
cent, therefore,  remains  on  the  radical  syllable  of  the  simple  verb 
and  the  prefix  is  unaccented,  or  at  most  may  be  accorded  a  sec- 
ondary accent.  But,  if  the  second  member  of  a  substantive  com- 
pound is  thus  entitled,  by  the  inherent  constitution  of  the  lan- 
guage, to  a  secondary  accent,  this  right  is  not  cancelled  by  the 
wearing  down  of  this  second  member  to  a  derivative  syllable  or 
formative  element,  from  which  it  may  be  easy  or  difficult  (or 
altogether  impossible)  to  conjecture  its  original  form.  Thus, 
when  god-like  becomes  godly,  the  secondary  word-accent  is  not 
relinquished.  What  is  true  of  the  accentuation  of  this  clearly 
understood  formative  syllable  -ly  is  true  of  the  entire  list  of  for- 
mative and  derivative  syllables  with  which  it  must  be  classified. 
The  Germanic  principle  of  accenting  syllables  in  accordance 
with  their  relative  weight  in  meaning  is  exemplified  in  this  un- 
broken tradition  of  secondary  word-accents. 

How  does  the  grammarian  come  to  be  so  certain  of  this  sec- 
ondary word-accent  ?  It  is  incontestably  proved  by  the  art  of  ver- 
sification in  the  earliest  period  of  English  and  confirmed  by  the 
rhythm  of  all  subsequent  English  poetry.  Anglo-Saxon  poetry 
is  composed  in  conformity  to  the  demands  of  a  highly  developed 
art.  It  is  notable  for  exacting  precision  of  technique,  conjoined 
with  vigor  of  thought  and  a  matured  refinement  of  taste.  Skill- 
ful craftsmanship  is  required  in  the  strict  observance  of  re- 
straints and  of  a  code  of  conventionalities,  which  contribute  to  the 
holding  of  a  poetic  composition  to  the  elevation  of  its  proper 
plane..  In  this  form  of  versification  the  rhythmic  elements  of  the 
language  are  so  clearly  exhibited  as  to  remove  all  doubt  from  in- 
ferences to  be  drawn  respecting  word-accent  and  its  relations 
to  rhythmic  stress.  The  early  Germanic  form  of  the  art  has,  of 
course,  been  superseded  by  another,  an  imported  prosody ;  but 
the  native  accentuation  of  the  language  has  remained  unim- 
paired; the  inherited  rhythmic  elements  have  been  subjected  to 
the  demands  of  the  new  versification  (which  has  now  been  culti- 
vated for  centuries  as  the  almost  exclusive  form),  but  this  has 
not  rendered  them  obscure  to  the  instinctive  perception  of  the 
vernacular  reader.  When,  therefore,  the  poet  puts  a  verse-stress 
on  the  second  syllable  of  day-light  and  on  the  last  syllable  off 
torch-bearer,  he  makes  legitimate  use  of  the  rhythmic  value  of 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  81 

secondary  word-accents,  and  is  in  accord  with  the  practice  of 
poets  from  Caedmon  to  Tennyson. 

Let  the  reader  now,  if  he  will,  turn  investigator  and  bring  to- 
gether what  he  recognizes  as  derivative  syllables;  and  then  let 
him  test  his  unbiased  response  to  a  slight  accent  on  these  sylla- 
bles— slight  but  sufficient  to  distinguish  these  syllables  from 
those  that  receive  the  primary  word-accent  and  from  those  that 
are  "unaccented."  He  will  find  that  the  secondary  stress  gives 
a  satisfactory  report  of  the  function  of  these  syllables,  and  con- 
tributes, therefore,  to  a  truer  utterance  of  the  full  import  of  the 
complete  words.  The  test  may  be  begun  with  -er,  which  will 
bring  torch-bearer  into  association  with  a  large  class  of  old  arjd 
new  nouns  of  agency.  This  suffix  is  held  in  the  mind  as  a  sym- 
bol of  agency,  and  its  function  in  these  words  is  perceived  to  be 
most  like  that  of  a  familiar  word  used  as  the  second  member  of 
a  substantive  compound;  and  a  new  word  is  formed  as  freely 
and  as  naturally  in  the  one  class  as  in  the  other.  A  process  allied 
to  this  conscious  making  of  new  words,  with  the  same  im- 
plications of  a  graduated  word-accent,  is  the  comparison  of 
the  adjective  by  adding  -er  and  -est.  The  nouns  of  rela- 
tionship, father,  mother,  brother,  sister,  constitute  another  cate- 
gory of  formations  in  the  pronunciation  of  which  a  secondary 
word-accent,  under  special  exigencies,4  is  altogether  acceptable 
to  the  native  ear.  An  inevitable  consequence  of  this  range  of 
function  of  the  formative  and  derivative  syllable  -er  (Germanic, 
but  variously  derived)  is,  finally,  observable  in  a  margin  of  an 

*What  is  meant  by  special  exigency  in  prose-utterance,  which  is,  in 
a  way,  comparable  to  the  sustained  exigency  of  poetic  elevation,  is 
Illustrated  in  Publications  of  the  Mod.  Lang.  Assn.  of  America  XIV, 
363  ff.  (This  is  a  welcome  occasion  to  ask  the  reader  to  cancel  the 
word  "not"  at  p.  363,  1.  11  from  below,  and  read:  "Such  exigencies  do 
arise  in  prose.")  Another  illustration  may  be  added  here,  for  what  is 
true  of  -ness  is  equally  true  of  -er.  Ann  Apperthwaite's  treatment  of 
"poor  David  Beasley"  is  described.  "How  did  she  treat  him?"  "Threw 
him  over  out  of  a  clear  sky  one  night,  that's  all.  Just  sent  him  home 
and  broke  his  heart;  that  is,  it  would  have  been  broken  if  he'd  had 
any  kind  of  disposition  except  the  one  the  Lord  blessed  him  with — 
just  all  optimism  and  cheerfulness  and  make-the-best-of-it-ness!" — 
Booth  Tarkington,  Beaslcy's  Christmas  Party.  Ch.  III. 


82  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

analogous  use  of  the  secondary  word-accent  in  words  like  after, 
ever,  never,  further,  either,  neither,  hither,  thither,  and  even 
summer,  winter,  leather,  silver,  water,  etc. 

In  a  ceremonious  utterance  of  prose  —  as  formal  as  the  read- 
ing of  a  church-service5  —  the  syllables  bearing  a  secondary 
word-accent  are  made  more  than  usually  prominent,  and  the 
effect  is  twofold  :  the  mind  is  quickened  in  the  perception  of  the 
sense-value  of  these  syllables,  and  the  ear  is  gratified  by  a  gain 
in  rhythmic  movement.  The  second  of  these  effects  is  surely 
not  the  weaker.  It  is  gratifying  because-  it  is  felt  to  be  appro- 
priate to  the  solemnity  of  the  thought  and  to  the  exaltation  of 
the  emotions.  This  common  experience  gives  an  apprehension 
of  the  highest  function  of  verse-rhythm.  It  is  a  short  step  from 
the  emotional  reading  of  formal  prose  to  the  artistic  (which 
is  also  emotional)  reading  of  poetry.  In  both  methods  the 
rhythmic  elements  of  the  language,  many  of  which  are  habitu- 
ally suppressed  in  unelevated  utterance,  are  employed  to  attain 
and  to  sustain  definitely  desired  effects.  The  average  reader 
is,  therefore,  sufficiently  prepared  to  verify  the  generalization 
that  observance,  at  discretion,  of  secondary  word-accents  con- 
tributes to  the  freer  rhythm  of  stately  prose  and  to  the  artis- 
tically controlled  rhythm  of  poetry.  The  second  term  of  this 
generalization,  which  embraces  the  particular  point  at  issue, 
may  be  restated  in  the  formula,  secondary  word-accent  is  avail- 
able for  verse-stress  (ictus). 

To  verify  the  formula  just  arrived  at,  the  investigating 
reader  might  now  proceed  with  the  several  categories  of  sec- 
ondary word-accent  already  particularized.  However,  he  had 
probably  better  take  a  wider  view  and  add  to  his  equipment 


formal  reading  in  the  church  has  affected  the  delivery  of  the 
sermon.  In  both  the  secondary  word-accents  receive  a  degree  of  atten- 
tion that  should  be  suggestive  to  the  prosodist.  The  church,  there- 
fore, rather  than  the  stage,  contributes  to  keep  alive  a  sense  for  the 
meaning  of  syllables  that  are  commonly  slighted  in  distinctness  of 
utterance.  Very  recently  I  heard  a  sermon  in  which  was  earnestly 
proclaimed  the  difference  between  "divine  wisdom"  and  "human  wise- 
ness.'' 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  S3 

an  approximately  complete  list  of  these  categories.     Detailed 
assistance  in  this  task,  which  is  not  a  difficult  one,  need  not  be 
given  here,   if  he  will   consent  to  be  referred  to  Bright  and 
Miller's  Elements  of  English  Versification  (Ginn  &  Co.).    And 
it  may  add  something  to  his  equipment  to  disengage  his  mind 
from  connotations  of  the  terms  "routine"  and  "regular"  as  ap- 
plied to  scansion;  "routine"  is  especially  suggestive  of  mechani- 
cal artlessness,  and  "regular"  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  its  ill- 
favored  variant  or  substitute.    Starting  afresh  with  no  hindrance 
in  a  technical  term  can,  perhaps,  be  made  possible  by  defining 
scansion  as  the  reading  of  a  verse  according  to  its  rhythm-sig- 
nature.    The  term  is  suggested  by  the  musician's  "time-signa- 
ture," which  he  sets  to  govern  the  reading  of  his  compositions. 
The  list  of  formative  and  derivative  syllables    (including  a 
large  number  of  prefixes)  has  been  greatly  increased  by  words 
of  Latin  and  French  origin,  but  these,  for  the  most  part,  are 
scanned  according  to  the  rhythm-signature  by  prosodists  in  gen- 
eral, including  those  most  insistent  in  their  denial  of  the  stress- 
value  of  the  secondary  word-accents  of  many  native  words.     In 
the  rhythmic  use  of  these  foreign  words — especially  of  the  poly- 
syllabic forms — there  is  a  freedom  in  the  distribution  of  the 
stresses  that  demonstrates  in  itself  the  availability  of  a  second- 
ary word-accent  for  ictus.     A  line  like 

This  supernatural  soliciting 

Macbeth  I,  iii,  130. 

unites  the  native  -ing  with  foreign  elements,  and  clearly  disal- 
lows a  difference  of  interpretation  with  reference  to  the  rhyth- 
mic use  of  secondary  word-accents.  Of  course,  the  poet  requires 
a  stress  on  the  alternate  syllables  and  that — it  is  said — ex- 
plains the  whole  matter.  This  again  illustrates  the  handling 
of  artistic  phenomena  by  some  who  protest  most  warmly  against 
a  "mechanical"  method.  'The  interlacing  of  a  series  of  grada- 
tions in  weight  of  meaning  or  emphasis  with  a  series  of  grada- 
tions in  stress,  both  subject  to  artistically  imposed  variations, 
results  in  the  melody  of  the  line;  and  this  melody  is,  therefore, 
neither  monotonous,  nor  identically  the  same  in  successive  lines, 
except  by  unusual  and  deliberate  design. 


84  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

The  .matter  is  comprehensively  stated  by  saying  that  the  poet 
may  lighten  the  heavy  tread  of  a  word  or  syllable  that  in  prose 
would  be  more  emphatic ;  and,  conversely,  that  he  may  raise  to 
some  degree  of  stress-prominence  a  word  or  syllable  that  in 
prose  wo  aid  be  Less  prominent.  The  movement  of  the  line  is 
thereby  made  less  pedestrian,  more  ''winged." 

The  house-keeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 

And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking 

Macbeth  III,  i,  96;  II,  iii,  150. 

Let  the  first  of  these  lines  be  read  in  a  sustained  monotone 
(reading  it  as  a  succession  of  heavy  spondees  will  not  lead 
far  astray),  and  it  will  be  perceived  that  the  stress  on  -er  is  an 
important  element  in  the  melody,  which  would  indeed  be  hope- 
lessly damaged  by  displacement  of  this  stress  in  conformity  to 
any  notion  of  the  prose-accentuation  of  house-keeper.  The 
reader  should  also  respond  to  the  notional  stress  thus  secured 
(the  notion  of  responsible  'agency'  dominates  the  line  and  its 
context),  which  compensates  for  the  weak  rhythmic  position  of 
the  repeated  element  -er  (in  hunter).  The  rhetoric  of  poetry 
abounds  in  subtleties  of  thought  that  are  easily  obscured  when 
poetry  is  read  like  prose.  To  cite  another  example  in  this  con- 
nection, how  finely  (and  with  what  inner  grammatical  pro- 
priety) the  stressed  -er  of  the  comparative  answers  back  to  the 
measuring  demonstrative  the  (which,  in  its  turn,  is  raised  to  a 
higher  level  as  thesis),  in  these  lines, 

Give  colour  to  my  pale  cheek  with  thy  blood, 
That  we  the  horrider  may  seem  to  those 
Which  chance  to  find  us 

Cymbeline  IV,  ii,  330ff. 

The  second  of  the  lines  cited  from  Macbeth  has  a  melody 
that  is  harmonious  with  that  of  the  first  but  not  identical  with 
it.  The  stress  on  a  proposition  followed  by  a  'conflict'  is  the 
most  distinctive  feature  of  this  melody.  But  the  critical  wren, 
"The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight,"  protesting  that  a 
preposition  is  accentually  a  proclitic.  However, 

Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb  upward. 

Macbeth  IV,  il,  24. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  85 

Dismissing  a  suspicion  of  a  covert  application  of  this  line, 
let  the  phrase  at  tJie  ivorst  be  freely  tried  colloquially,  and  the 
possibility  of  an  accented  preposition  will  surely  be  verified. 
A  problem  is  now  encountered  that  might  be  pursued  in  several 
directions,  but  nothing  more  shall  be  attempted  here  than  a 
partial  indication  of  the  poet's  use  of  the  notional  value  of 
prepositions,  conjunctions,  adverbs,  copulative  and  '.auxiliary 
verbs,  articles,  and  pronouns, — words  to  which  normal  stress  is 
often  theoretically  denied. 

The  following  lines  added  to  those  already  cited  will  keep  the 
discussion  concrete.  Lines  thus  taken  at  random  prove  that  an 
English  verse  is  constructed  not  only  according  to  a  rhythm-signa- 
ture, but  also  according  to  a  rhetoric  of  poetry ;  and  that  this  is  a 
rhetoric  of  the  finest  distinctions  in  the  notional  function  of  the 
elements  of  the  language,  which  are,  by  reason  of  the  notional 
basis  of  the  native  system  of  accentuation,  capable  of  being  re- 
ported to  the  ear  by  some  degree  or  sort  of  stress.  Herein  lies 
an  important  requirement  of  good  poetry:  The  poet  must  keep 
his  composition  in  a  movement  that  holds  it  steadily  and  agree- 
ably above  the  level  of  prose.  Obviously  he  must  exercise  a  re- 
fined sense  for  the  notional  and  rhythmic  value  of  each  sylla- 
ble admitted  into  a  line.  The  artistic  compactness  of  poetic 
expression  alone  must  fatally  expose  the  slightest  fault  or  infe- 
licity in  the  selection  of  a  word  or  syllable. 

I  draw  the  sword  myself:   take  it.  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart; 
Fear  not:   'tis  empty  of  all  things  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there,  who  wds  indeed 
The  riches  of  it:   do  his  bidding;   strike, 
Thou  mayst  be  valiant  in  a  better  cause 

As  qudrrelous  (is  the  weasel;  nay,  you  must 
Forget  that  rarest  treasure  6f  your  cheek 

Cymbeline  III,  iv,  69ff;   161f. 

There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal; 

The  breath  of  heaven  has  blown  his  spirit  out 

And  strew'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head 

And  oftentimes  excusing  6f  a  fault 

Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse 

that  close  aspect  of  his 
Does  show  the  mood  of  d  much  troubled  breast 

K.  J.  IV,  i,  109ff;  ii,  30f;  72f. 


86  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Thy  father  wds  the  Duke  of  Milan  dnd 
A  prince  of  power 

Tempest  I,  ii,  54f. 

Who  needs  must  know  of  her  departure  dnd 
Dost  seem  so  ignorant,  we'll  enforce  it  from  thee 

Wihat  can  from  Italy  annoy  us:   but 
We  grieve  at  chances  here 

Cymbeline  IV,  iii,  lOf;   34f. 

To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 

To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 

Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 

To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 

Is  wasteful  dnd  ridiculous  excess 

K.  J.  IV,  ii,  12ff. 

O  God,  thy  arm  was  here; 
And  not  to  us  but  t6  thy  arm  alone 
Ascribe  we  all! 

K.  H.  V,  IV,  viii,  lllff. 

What  is  to  be  learned  by  observing  the  ryhthmic  construc- 
tion of  the  lines  now  before  the  reader  is  unmistakably  clear, 
and  it  is  not  denied  that 

The  argument  all  bare  is  of  more  worth 
Than  when  it  hath  my  added  praise  beside! 

Sonnet  GUI. 

The  observer  shall  be  asked,  however,  to  alloV  a  brief  con- 
tinuance in  the  method  of  directing  his  attention  to  elementary 
facts  and  principles.  Do  not  these  lines  then  give  an  insight 
into  the  means,  legitimated  by  the  rhetoric  of  poetry,  by  which 
the  poet  secures  variety  of  melodic  movement?  And  do  not 
these  lines  contribute  to  an  insight  into  the  principles  of  that 
rhetoric?  The  words  marked  for  special  attention  are  words 
that  express  the  relations  of  the  thought,  the  direction  of  its 
applications,  its  connections  (coordinate,  adversative,  etc.),  and 
its  turnings  on  selected  details  (as  in  the  use  of  articles  and  pro- 
nouns). These  stresses  and  those  of  "conflict"  and  other  uses 
of  secondary  word-accents  as  ictus  constitute  approved  devices 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  87 

for  sustaining  poetic  elevation  of  thought  and  artistic  move- 
ment of  expression;  they  contribute  also  to  delicacy  and  pre- 
cision in  the  articulation  of  the  thought:  and  they  enable  the 
poet  to  hold  together  more  compactly  the  parts  of  emotional 
and  figurative  expressions.6  It  follows  that  the  principles  ob- 
served in  composing  it  are  not  to  be  nullified  in  the  reading  of 
poetry.  In  music  the  corresponding  inference  is  not  disputed; 
even  a  partial  disregard  of  it  is  recognized  as  due  to  individual 
capriee. 

Although  the  argument  of  this  communication  has  been  pre- 
sented in  the  most  elementary  manner,  its  complete  significance 
must  be  apparent  enough  to  the  unbiased  reader.  But  there 
has  been  recent  advocacy  of  a  theory  of  stresses  by  which  the 
argument  advanced  here  is  so  plainly  though  indirectly  con- 
firmed that  it  should  now  be  recalled,  however  briefly.7  It  is 
contended  that  the  light  stresses  are  not  marked  off  audibly  but; 

«These  points  should  be  discussed  in  an  analysis  of  style  in  poetry; 
but  only  this  shall  be  added,  that  "The  essence  of  style,"  as  described 
by  Mr.  Galsworthy  (Foreword  to  W.  H.  Hudson's  Green  Mansions), 
will  be  made  more  clearly  perceptible  by  reading  poetry  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  hold  each  syllable  to  its  notional  and  rhythmic  function. 
These  are  Mr.  Galsworthy's  words,  which  are  suggestively  applicable  to 
style  in  poetry:  "To  use  words  so  true  and  simple,  that  they  oppose 
no  obstacle  to  the  flow  of  thought  and  feeling  from  mind  to  mind,  and 
yet  by  juxtaposition  of  word-sounds  set  up  in  the  re'cipient  continuing 
emotion  or  gratification." 

?See  T.  S.  Oman,  "'Inverted  Feet'  in  Verse"  (The  Academy,  Oct.  2 
and  10,  1908),  and  R.  M.  Alden,  "The  Mental  Side  of  Metrical  Form" 
(The  Mod.  Lang.  Review  IX,  297-308).  Mr.  Oman  cites  these  lines; 
from  Pope: 

Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise. 

His  comment  runs:  "No  one  would  say  that  the  words  italicised  in 
these  lines  carry  a  full  stress.  To  call  them  'metrically  accented'  is  to 
juggle  with  terms.  Does  or  does  not  this  metrical .  accent  imply  any 
corresponding  speech-stress?  Clearly  it  does  not;  only  a  child  sing- 
songing its  lines  would  lay  stress  on  these  words.  Speech-stress  and 
metrical  accent  are  two  different  things,  not  to  be  confounded.  Half 
the  mistakes  of  prosodic  theory  come  from  supposing  that  a  mental 
beat  must  needs  receive  physical  expression.  .  .  .  rhythm  can  be  fol- 


88  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

only  mentally.  The  merit  of  this  theory  is  that  it  maintains  the 
signature-place  of  the  stresses ;  its  defect  consists  in  a  psycholog- 
ical refinement  (to  the  vanishing  point  of  audible  rhythm)  of 
signature-scansion  that  contradicts  the  inherent  character  of 
English  accentuation  and  denies  the  plain  evidence  of  an  un- 
broken tradition,  through  centuries,  in  the  artistic  use  of  the 
rhythmic  elements  of  the  language. 

To  suggest  a  method  of  study  has  been  the  primary  aim  in 
this  discussion,  and  it  must  be  closed  with  a  mere  enumeration 
of  additional  topics  of  importance  in  a  complete  exposition  of 
the  artistic  effects  of  scansion  according  to  rhythm-signature/ 
The  stress  of  inflectional  and  conjugational  endings;  the  ad- 
mission of  extra  syllables  (the  resolution  of  arsis  and  of  the- 
sis) ;  the  conventional  "trochaic  beginning,"  and  the  "direct 
attack";  the  use  of  pauses;  the  time-relations  ("quantity")  of 
the  elements  of  a  rhythmic  pattern,  and  its  tempo  or  rate  of 
movement, — regrettably,  it  is  necessary  to  refrain  from  even 
the  briefest  evaluation  of  these  attractive  divisions  of  the  subject. 

Overtopping  all  other  considerations,  the  hope  is  entertained 
that  nothing  has  been  offered  here  to  deserve  the  disapproba- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  Shakespeare,  because  this  is 

'Dulling  my  lines  and  doing  me  disgrace 
by  distractingly  directing  the  mind  of  my  readers 

To  new-found  methods  and  to  compounds  strange.' 

The  more  positive  side  of  the  sustained  hope  has  been  to  pro- 
mote true  and  complete  response  to  the  great  master's  art — the 
response  he  eould  not  have  expected  ever  to  become  either  dull 
or  fantastic. 

lowed  even  though  an  occasional  beat  be  not  emphasized  by  syllable- 
stress." 

Professor  Alden  is  incapable  of  such  inexactness  in  the  use  of 
technical  terms,  and  he  gives  assistance  in  the  perception  of  the  varied 
and  subtle  character  of  the  disputed  stresses.  Further  comment  o» 
this  theory  must,  however,  be  withheld  for  another  occasion. 


THE  QUARREL  OF  BENEDICK  AND  BEATRICE 
BY  CHARLES  READ  BASKERVILL 

On  the  average  modern  reader  the  quarrel  of  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  II,  1,  makes  no  exception- 
al impression.  It  seems  little  more  than  a  renewed  attack  in  the 
war  of  wits  between  the  two  which  the  reader  has  been  following 
up  to  this  point.  Beatrice  is  accused  of  borrowing  her  jests  from 
A  Hundred  Merry  Tales,  and  retaliates  by  comparing  Benedick's 
wit  to  that  of  the  "prince's  jester."  Why  is  Benedick,  who  takes 
Beatrice's  seemingly  more  bitter  taunts  in  good  part,  roused  to 
•uch  wrath  at  this?  The  blow  to  his  mere  vanity  as  a  wit  does 
not  seem  to  explain  sufficiently  the  effect  on  him,  -nor  does  the 
view  that  the  sparring  of  the  two  here  simply  brings  to  a  climax 
the  rising  anger  of  Benedick.  Such  an  interpretation  is  not  true 
to  the  spirit  of  the  play  or  to  the  emphasis  laid  on  the  passage  in 
the  development  of  Shakespeare 's  plot.  For  it  is  immediately  af- 
ter this — after  Benedick  in  recounting  the  quarrel  to  Don  Pedro 
has  declared  that  he  would  not  marry  Beatrice  ' '  though  she  were 
endowed  with  all  that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he  transgressed ' ' 
— that  Don  Pedro  proposes  what  is  characterized  as  "one  of  Her- 
cules' labours,"  to  make  the  two  antagonists  fall  in  love  with 
each  other.  The  truth  is  that  the  quarrel  has  lost  for  modern 
readers  the  force  of  its  meaning;  its  richness  in  suggestion  for 
Renaissance  readers  and  hearers  has  faded  out.  Beatrice's  taunt 
is  not  a  last  straw  for  the  already  nettled  Benedick,  but  a  most 
outrageous  insult. 

In  order  to  understand  Benedick's  feeling  that  Beatrice  has 
been  guilty  of  an  unpardonable  insult,  one  must  understand  the 
exceptional  value  set  by  the  courtly  classes  of  the  Renaissance 
upon  a  wit  that  represented  humanistic  culture,  and  the  absolute 
condemnation  of  certain  types  of  jesting.  At  an  early  period  in 
the  Renaissance,  humanists  began  to  formulate  a  doctrine  of  true 
wit,  or  wit  that  belonged  to  the  ideals  of  courtesy  and  conse- 
quently differentiated  the  man  of  true  virtue  or  distinction  from 

[89] 


90  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

the  vulgar.1  Schoolboys  as  well  as  courtiers  were  trained  in  the 
types  of  jests  appropriate  to  the  man  of  culture.2  Even  rhetorics 
like  Wilson 's  Arte  of  Rhetorique  dealt  with  the  matter  as  a  phase 
of  Renaissance  education.  Wilson  classified  types  of  jesting  that 
were  to  be  avoided,  and  distinguished  '  *  betwixt  a  common  iester, 
and  a  pleasant  wiseman."3  But  to  true  or  cultured  wit  the  Re- 
naissance gave  the  highest  approval.  Some  early  humanists  like 
Sir  Thomas  More  were  esteemed  as  highly  for  their  wit  as  for  any 
other  quality.  The  stress  laid  on  wit  by  the  courtesy  books  has 
led  some  students  to  find  the  source  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice  in 
the  greatest  of  the  courtesy  books,  11  Cortegiano,  as  translated  by 
Sir  Thomas  Hoby.4  It  is  more  probable,  however,  that  Shake- 
speare was  merely  sharing  the  Renaissance  passion  for  wit,  and  in 
portraying  his  witty  characters  like  Biron  and  Rosaline,  and  Ben- 
edick and  Beatrice  reflected  simply  the  witty  conversation  af- 
fected by  English  gallants  and  ladies  at  Elizabeth's  court  and 
among  those  who  imitated  the  customs  of  the  court.  Lyly's 
Euphues  and  his  plays,  as  well  as  other  novels  and  plays  of  the 
last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century,  illustrate  the  vogue. 

In  Shakespeare 's  early  comedies  there  is  a  great  elaboration  of 
the  various  types  of  wit  current  in  the  age,  and  his  characters, 
along  with  those  of  his  contemporaries  in  general,  observe  with 
a  fair  degree  of  consistency  the  laws  of  decorum  in  the  use  of 
types  of  wit  and  humorous  language.  We  have  the  raillery  and 
mockery  of  the  courtly  class;  the  plays  upon  words,  antithetical 
retorts  and  logical  fence;  the  hyperbole,  the  conceits,  the  far- 
fetched similes  and  metaphors  of  its  love  poetry.  Nearest  to  wit 
of  the  courtly  type  and  often  not  easily  to  be  distinguished  from 
it,  is  the  wit  of  the  page,  with  his  perverse  logic,  his  impudent 
mockery,  and  his  shrewd  waggishness.  Dromio  of  Syracuse  and 
Speed  illustrate  the  type  best  in  Shakespeare,  though  they  have 


iCf.  Burckhardt,  Renaissance  in  Italy,  translated  by  Middlemore, 
1914,  pp.  154  ff. 

2Cf.  Erasmus,  Colloquies,  "The  Religious  Treat"  and  "The  Fabulous 
Feast";  and  Castiglione.  II  Oortegiano,  translated  by  Hoby,  pp.  152  ff. 

•Mair's  edition,  pp.  137-139. 

*Cf.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  introduction  to  the  edition  of  The  Cour- 
tier in  the  Tudor  Translations,  and  Miss  M.  A.  Scott  in  Modern  Lang. 
Publications,  XVI  (1901),  pp.  489-502. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  91 

a  stronger  tinge  of  the  clown  than  Lyly's  pages.  More  clownish 
still  is  the  type  of  wit  seen  in  such  servants  as  Dromio  of  Ephe- 
RUS  and  Launce,  with  their  soliloquies  and  droll  narratives  in- 
terspersed with  reports  of  conversations — characters  akin  in  wit 
to  the  vices  of  the  older  drama.  But  to  the  Elizabethan  the  most 
degraded  of  all  forms  of  wit  arising  from  conscious  effort  was 
that  of  the  professional  fool,  or  jester,  who  in  his  worst  form  was 
known  as  the  ale-house  jester.  Theoretically  the  wit  of  any  of 
these  less  favored  classes  would  have  been  disgraceful  in  a  courtly 
person,  marking  him  as  an  inferior  in  culture  and  social  stand- 
ing.5 

In  Elizabeth's  court,  where  gallants  and  ladies  constantly 
paraded  their  wit  and  even  pages  revealed  the  same  passion,  the 
professional  jester  and  the  pure  simpleton  do  not  seem  to  have 
found  an  important  place.  Their  function  had  not  altogether 
died  out,  however.  Some  fools  were  retained  in  noblemen's 
houses,6  and  the  old  jest  books,  whose  tales  were  often  grouped 
around  the  names  of  jesters  of  Henry  VIII 's  court,  were  exceed- 
ingly popular  among  the  common  people.  Some  of  these  stories 
set  forth  the  jests  of  people  of  rank,  but  all  were  condemned  by 
the  courtly  and  cultivated  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  accusation  that  her  jests  were  stolen  from  A  Hundred  Merry 

<sin  Love's  Labours  Lost,  the  play  that  best  illustrates  courtly  wit 
before  Much  Ado,  comparison  of  the  types  is  invited  in  the  page  Moth 
and  even  in  Costard,  who  is  not  always  the  pure  clown.  In  Much  Ado 
Shakespeare  sets  over  against  courtly  wit  the  humor  of  the  pure 
clown,  and  attains  one  of  his  most  striking  contrasts.  In  opposition 
to  the  wit  of  conscious  effort  is  the  unconscious  blundering  of  the  clown 
with  his  stupidity  in  the  pretentious  use  of  words  and  ideas.  The  most 
conventionally  stupid  clown  was  the  constable.  In  him,  as  in  his  wits, 
Shakespeare  was  following  the  convention  of  the  age.  The  constable 
appeared  in  plays  like  Endimion  and  Leir  before  the  day  of  Dogberry 
and  Verges.  The  "Stage-keeper"  in  the  Induction  of  Jonson's  Bnrtholo* 
meiv  Fair,  picturing  Tarleton  as  acting  at  the  Fair  in  a  role  appro- 
priate to  him,  with  another  actor  playing  the  rogue,  declares  that  at 
the  end  you  would  have  seen  "a  substantial  watch  to  have  stolen  in 
upon  them,  and  taken  them  away,  with  mistaking  words,  as  the 
fashion  is  in  the  stage-practice." 

6Cf.  Armins'  Nest  of  Ninnies  for  an  account  of  a  number  of  such 
fools.  Beatrice  in  I,  1,  refers  to  her  uncle's  fool. 

7— S1 


92  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Tales  was  in  itself  an  insult  that  Beatrice  was  not  slow  to  resent. 
She  repaid  the  insult  with  overflowing  measure,  however,  when 
she  not  only  called  Benedick  "a  very  dull  fool"  but  added  a 
turn  that  gave  mortal  offence.  She  described  him  unmistakably 
as  the  ale-house  jester. 

"Beatrice — Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester:  a  very  dull  fool: 
only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders:  none  but  liber- 
tines delight  in  him;  and  the  commendation  is  not  in  his  wit, 
but  in  his  villany ;  for  he  both  pleases  men  and  angers  them,  and 
then  they  laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  .  .  *  .  . 

Benedick — When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him  what  you 
say. 

Beatrice — Do,  do:  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or  two  on  me; 
which,  peradventure  not  marked  or  not  laughed  at,  strikes  him 
into  melancholy;  and  then  there's  a  partridge  wing  saved,  for 
the  fool  will  eat  no  supper  that  night. ' ' 

The  ale-house  jester  had  been  condemned  earlier  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  as  by  Wilson  in  his  Art e  of  Rhetorique,  but  by  the 
end  of  the  century  he  was  one  type  of  professional  jester  that  was 
almost  universally  condemned  and  in  the  most  indignant  terms, 
particularly  as  one  who  misled  young  gentlemen,  nobles,  and 
princes.  His  jests  were  not  mere  second-hand  tales  and  more  or 
less  stupid  retorts ;  they  were  scurrilous,  degraded,  and  vicious — 
"villany,"  as  Beatrice  declares.  His  attraction  lay  in  the  sharp- 
ness of  his  raillery  and  abuse,  and  his  was  a  studied  art  to  amuse 
young  men  to  their  own  damage  and  to  the  profit  of  this  new 
type  of  professional  parasite.  The  most  exhaustive  picture  of 
him  in  his  most  detestable  phase  is  given  by  Jonson  in  Carlo 
Buffone  of  Every  Man  Out  of  His  Humour.  Carlo  represents 
in  his  main  traits  the  buffoon  as  'condemned  by  Aristotle  and 
the  ale-house  jester  as  condemned  by  Wilson  and  other  human- 
ists. Jonson 's  character  apparently  reflects,  also,  the  most 
famous  of  the  actual  jesters  representing  the  type  at  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  Charles  Chester.  All  the  vices  ascribed 
to  Benedick  as  the  "prince's  jester"  are  scathingly  rebuked  in 
the  figure  of  Carlo.  Though  less  complete  than  Jonson 's,  there 
are  also  a  number  of  illustrations  of  the  type  before  Shakespeare. 
Nashe's  picture  of  Chester  in  Pierce  Pennilesse  illustrates  all  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  93 

points  of  Beatrice's  sketch,  the  slanders  of  the  jester,  the  prince's 
laughing  at  his  scurrility  and  yet  beating  him  in  anger,  the 
"breaking  of  a  comparison"  as  a  feature  of  his  art.  Nashe  con- 
demns not  only  the  jester  but  the  keeper  as  well: 

"It  is  a  disparagement  to  those  that  haue  any  true  sparke  of 
Gentilitie,  to  be  noted  of  the  whole  world  so  to  delight  in  de- 
tracting, that  they  should  kee-pe  a  venemous  toothd  Cur,  and 
feed  him  with  the  crums  that  fall  from  their  table,  to  do  noth- 
ing but  bite  euery  one  by  the  shins  that  passe  by.  If  they  will 
needes  be  merry,  let  them  haue  a  foole  and  not  a  knaue  to  dis- 
port them,  and  seeke  some  other  to  bestow  their  almes  on,  than 
such  an  impudent  begger."7 

Shakespeare  himself  had  used  the  type  before  Much  Ado. 
When  in  Henry  IV*  he  represented  the  youth  of  Henry  V,  who 
according  to  old  stories  was  given  to  wild  company,  he  changed 
the  picture  of  a  young  prince  who  was  merely  an  associate  of 
robbers  .in  The  Famous  Victories  of  Henry  V  into  that  of  a  young 
prince  misled  by  an  ale-house  jester.  The  age  readily  under- 
stood such  an  association,  for  men  were  seeing  it  and  condemn- 
ing it,  as  I  have  pointed  out.  Shakespeare  does  not,  however, 
make  the  prince  who  developed  into  his  ideal  king  the  patron  of 
a  mere  scurrilous,  railing  parasite.  The  jester  who  exercises  his 
wit  to  procure  meals  from  Prince  Hal  is  made  the  most  subtle  and 
genial  humorist  of  all  literature.  But  the  essential  basis  of  the 
sketch  must  not  be  forgotten.  Falstaff  gets  his  meals  by  his  jest- 
ing; his  jesting  is  frequently  raillery  and  abuse;  and  his  abuse  of 
the  Prince  is  rank  enough  to  justify  Hal,  if  he  had  been  so  dis- 
posed in  beating  him  as  other  ale-house  parasite-s  are  represented 
as  being  beaten  when  they  went  too-  far  with  their  patrons.  Fur- 
ther, a  large  amount  of  Falstaff 's  wit  is  in  the  nature  of  the  "ab- 
surd comparisons"  which  are  stressed  so  fully  by  Nashe  and 
Jonson,  and  are  imputed  to  Benedick  by  Beatrice. 

It  is  worth  noting  that  in  spite  of  the  sharp  distinctions 
drawn  between  true  wit  and  unworthy  railing  and  in  spite  of  the 
great  pride  in  wit  revealed  among  the  cultured  like  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  i-n  the  Renaissance,  both  Benedick  and  Beatrice  betray 
an  unusual  sensitiveness  to  the  charge  of  grossness  in  wit.  Mary 

'WvrTcs,  edited  by  McKerrow,  Vol.  I,  p.  191. 


94  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Lamb  remarks  in  regard  to  Benedick,  "  There  is  nothing  that 
great  wits  so  much  dread  as  the  imputation  of  buffoonery,  be- 
cause the  charge  comes  sometimes  a  little  too  near  the  truth." 
Benedick  in  reflecting  on  Beatrice's  charges  says,  "The  prince's 
fool !  Ha  ?  It  may  be  I  go  under  that  title  because  I  am  merry. ' ' 
But  the  hesitation  about  the  worthiness  of  his  wit  is  only  mo- 
mentary; he  immediately  ascribes  such  an  estimate  to  the  "base, 
though  bitter,  disposition  of  Beatrice, ' '  and  expresses  afterwards 
nothing  but  indignation  at  the  charges  brought  against  him  as  a 
wit.  Beatrice  is  forced  to  hear  a  similar  estimate  of  her  wit, 
though  she  is  accused  merely  of  pride  and  scorn,  not  of  ' '  villany. ' ' 
when  Hero  and  Ursula  are  baiting  her  in  III,  1,  knowing  that 
she  overhears,  her  raillery  is  condemned,  and  with  a  kind  of  poetic 
justice  she  is  accused  of  transforming  men  with  the  absurd  com- 
parisons that  make  up  a  part  of  her  picture  of  Benedick  as  an 
ale-house  jester. 

"Why,  you  speak  truth.    I  never  yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward:  if  fair-faced, 
She  would  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sistt-r ; 
If  black,  why,  Nature,  drawing  of  an  antique, 
Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed ; 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut; 
If  speaking,  why  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth." 

In  answer  to  this  indictment  Beatrice  soliloquizes, 

"What  fire  is  in  mine  ears?     Can  this  be  true? 

Stand  I  condemn 'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much? 
Comtempt,  farewell!  and  maiden  pride,  adieu! 
No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  though  courtly  wit  was  sharply  differ- 
entiated from  all  that  savored  of  scurrility  and  clownishness, 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  95 

much  of  the  wit  of  Lyly's  courtly  characters  and  of  Shake- 
speare's in  the  plays  up  to  and  including  Much  Ado  is  of  the  rail- 
ing and  personal  type.  The  conventional  treatment  of  heroines 
in  Italian  novelle  and  in  the  fiction  of  all  Elizabeth's  reign  pre- 
sents them  as  unapproachable  and  scornful  of  all  wooers,  and 
their  scorn  is  best  expressed  in  their  wit.  The  convention  is  con- 
spicuous in  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  But,  at  the  end  of  the  century, 
new  developments  in  the  idea  of  what  was  allowable  in  wit  are 
very  clear.  Not  only  does  the  satire  on  the  absurd  similes  or 
comparisons  that  appear  in  the  accounts  of  Chester,  of  Falstaff, 
and  of  Carlo  Buffone,  and  in  the  accusations  against  Benedick 
and  Beatrice  seem  to  have  received  fresh  emphasis,8  but  the  scorn 
and  pride  of  the  unapproachable  court  lady  was  also  going  out 
of  fashion.  When  Beatrice  is  being  lectured  into  love,  Ursula  re- 
marks, 

"Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable," 
and  Hero  replies, 

' '  No,  not  to  be  so  odd  and  from  all  fashions 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable." 

Shakespeare  has  expressed  here  the  verdict  around  1600  on  the 
disdainful  type  of  heroine.  The  words  are  for  the  moment's  ef- 
fect on  Beatrice,  and  cannot  represent  any  true  estimate  of  her, 
for  she  is  infinitely  more  complex  and  more  witty  than  the  sketch 
of  Hero  and  Ursula  shows  her.  Nevertheless,  she  is  sufficiently 
akin  to  the  type  condemned  by  her  two  companions  to  make  their 
verdict  telling.  In  the  year  in  which  Much  Ado  probably  ap- 
peared, 1599,  Jonson,  clearly  glancing  at  the  type  as  portrayed 
in  Euphues,  satirized  in  Saviolina  of  Every  Man  Out  of  His 
Humour  the  pert  and  caustic  lady  of  wit  as  shallow  and  out  of 
fashion  among  the  courtly.  Rosaline  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost  is 
Shakespeare's  first  essay  in  the  type.  In  Beatrice  he  has  fur- 
nished the  finest  development  of  the  conception;  'but  even  in 
Much  Ado  he  has  brought  to  light  the  essential  weakness  of  such 

8Cf.     Hart,  Wvrks  of  Ben  Jonson,  Vol.  1,  pp.  xxxvi  ff.,  and  Basker- 
vill,  English  Elements  in  Jonson's  Early  Comedy,  pp.  174-177. 


96  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

an  ideal  of  wit,  and  I  think  it  can  be  said  that  he  never  again 
attempted  to  portray  the  type.  Perhaps,  indeed,  the  use  in  Much 
Ado  of  a  type  already  going  out  of  fashion  may  have  been  due 
to  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  was  here  revising  an  old  play,  pos- 
sibly the  Love's  Labour's  Won,  which  has  been  conjecturally 
identified  with  an  early  version  of  Much  Ado. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CONCEPTION  OF  HUMOR  AS  EXEM- 
PLIFIED IN  FALSTAFF 

BY  HENRY  DAVID  GRAY 

When  I  can  induce  the  nice  young  people  who  make  up  my 
undergraduate  classes  in  Shakespeare  to  tell  me  the  very  truth 
of  the  matter,  I  find  that  few  of  them  really  think  Falstaff  as- 
funny  as  the  solemn  critics  have  always  made  him  out.  They 
will  admit  that  their  sensibilities  are  more  often  offended  by 
him  than  their  risibilities  axe  roused  (though  they  do  not  pu' 
it  in  just  that  way),  and  some  are  so  hardy  as  to  think  that  the 
fault  lies  as  much  in  the  too  great  freedom  of  Elizabethan 
times  as  in  the  ultra-modesty  of  themselves.  I  remember  tjiat 
as  an  undergraduate  this  was -very  much  my  own  feeling.  JL_ 
knew  that  Falstaff  .was  accounted  the  greatest  humorous  char- 
acter in  all  literature;  yet  I,  who  prided  myself  upon  having. 
a  sense  of  humor,  would  sometimes  deliberately  skip  the  Fal- 
staff scenes  in  Henry  IV,  because  I  felt  in  reading  them  more 
of  anger,  disgust,  and  even  boredom  than  of  genuine  amuse-- 
ment  and  delight.  Even  those  who  have  written  on  Falstaff 
with  most  authority  have  sometimes  felt  his  extremity  of  wick-x 
edness  as  a  limitation.  Thus  Maurice  Morgann,  whose  famous 
essay  on  "The  Character  of  Sir  John  Falstaff"  toward  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century  has  been  the  foundation  of  all 
later  criticism,  while  recognizing  that  Falstaff  is  "the  most 
perfect  comic  character  that  perhaps  ever  was  exhibited,"  yet 
says:  "It  must  be  a  strange  art  in  Shakespeare  that  can  draw 
our  liking  and  good  will  toward  so  offensive  an  object  .  .  . 
Is  the  humor  and  gayety  of  vice  so  very  captivating?"  In 
like  manner,  Professor  Stoll,  whose  "Falstaff"  forms  one  of 
his  series  of  studies  in  Shakespearean  characters  exemplifying 
the  New  Criticism,  can  scarcely  find  terms  sufficient  to  con- 
demn Falstaff 's  character  and  conduct.  "Falstaff  .  .  . 
already  a  cheat,  a  liar,  a  boaster,  a  glutton,  a  lecher,  and  a 
thief,  could  hardly  help  being  a  coward  as  well."  "All  this 
[' wrecking  one's  self  on  a  dead  body'  and  the  like]  once  was 
funny,"  says  Stoll,  "and  now  is  base  and  pitiful." 

[97] 


98  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

The  question  is  therefore  before  us:  has  the  humor  of  Fal- 
sfoff  become^  antiquated?  Nothing  is  less  permanent  than 
humor,  since  it  depends  so  largely  on  the  element  of  surprise, 
and  on  the  appeal  of  the  familiar  seen  in  an  unaccustomed 
light;  and  after  three  hundred  years  what  once  was  surprising 
becomes  familiar,  and  what  WflS  fa.miligy'T^pp.nTnp.fl  strange.  Yet 
even  in  humor  there  are  certain  elements  which  are  permanent; 
and  if  a  character  is  conceived  in  accordance  with  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  what  is  necessarily  and  •  eternally  comic, 
he  should  be  as  truly  humorous  in  one  age  as  another.  Let 
us  consider  the  characteristics  of  Falstaff,  to  see  whether  they 
_^  are  such  as  were  particularly  appropriate  to  th 
?  period^or  are  :essential  to  a  humorous  character 
1  times.  This  may  lead  us  to  a  more  important  question.  There 
are  many  indications  in  the  Henry  IV  plays  that  Shakespeare 
was  attempting  as  deliberately  as  the  spontaneity  essential  to 
the  true  humorist  permitted,  to  create  a  character  as  completely 
the  embodiment  of  laughter  as  was  possible.  As  Falstaff  him- 
self comments:  "The  brain  of  this  foolish-compounded  clay, 
man,  is  not  able  to  invent  anything  that  intends  to  laughter, 
more  than  I  invent  or  is  invented  on  me, ' n  On  the  other  hand 
there  are  some  signs  that  Falstaff  ran  away  from  Shakespeare, 
and  in  doing  so  ran  away  as  well  from  the  New  Criticism  of 
Professor  Stoll. 

The  first  thing  we  think  of  in  connection  with  Falstaff  is  that 
he  is  fat.     Now  to  be  fat,  even  extremely  fat,  is  not  necessarily 
funny.     The  fat  lady  of  a  circus  side  show  is  an  object  of  curi- 
osity and  pity  rather  than  of  laughter.     Yet  as  incongruity  is  the, 
\  soul  of  humor,  Falstaff,  to  be  completely  and  absolutely  amus- 
1  ing  in  every  particular,  must  be  either  too  fat  or  too  thin.2 

H  Henry  IV,  I,  ii,  7. 

2Or  else,  perhaps,  too  short  or  too  tall.  Every  departure  from  the 
normal  offers  an  opportunity  for  caricature,  and  there  is  probably  no 
•obvious  peculiarity  which  has  not  been  humorously  treated.  Every 
^phase  of  personal  ugliness  has  been  portrayed;  every  physical  afflic- 
tion or  deformity  has  been  paraded.  Anyone  may  recall  abundant  in- 
stances, from  the  mediaeval  gargoyle  to  the  modern  vaudeville  come- 
dian and  circus  clown.  The  grotesque,  or  physically  abnormal  treated 
humorously,  usually  contains,  however,  something  repellent,  and  our 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  99 

In  creating  a  character  for  the  stage,  who  must  be  portrayed 
by  an  actor,  Shakespeare's  choice  was  inevitable.  An  actor 
can  easily  "make  up"  as  fat  as  ever  you  will,  but  he  cannot  be 
any  thinner  than  he  is.  On  the  printed  page  there  is  no  such 
limitation.  Cervantes  created  the  tall  and  gaunt  Don  Quixote 
almost  at  the  very  time  that  Shakespeare  produced  his  comic 
masterpiece;  and  the  thinness  of  Don  Quixote  has  remained 
for  these  three  hundred  years  as  essential  an  element  of  humor 
as  the  fat  of  Falstaff.  Certainly,  though  it  is  the  most  obvious 
and  least  individual  of  his  many  extremes,  the  fat  of  Falstaff 
is  as  essentially  grotesque  in  one  age  as  another;  and  for  him 
to  be  completely  comic,  it  is  a  necessary  and  not  a  fortuitous 
condition. 

That  Falstaff  is  a  glutton  and  a  monstrous  drinker  of  sack 
follows  as  a  matter  of  course.  Here  it  is  not  the  much  eating 
and  drinking  which  produces  the  fat,  but  the  fat  of  Falstaf? 
causes  the  eating  and  drinking!  I  do  not  mean  that  Shake- 
speare first  determined  upon  the  bulk  of  flesh  and  then  added 
gormandizing  and  bibulous  habits  as  corollaries.  I  am  merely 
examining  the  possible  sources  of  humor  and  arranging  these 
in  a  logical  not  chronological  order.  The  hungry  and  glutton- 
ous parasite  comes,  as  every  one  knows,  from  Latin  comedy; 
and  Professor  Stoll  is  quite  right  in  recognizing  that  Falstaff  *s 

sense  of  amusement  is  therefore  quickly  exhausted.  We  cannot  re- 
ceive the  greatest  possible  amount  of  humorous  delight  from  a  character 
we  despise,  whom  we  merely  laugh  at.  We  must  be  rather  fond  of 
Falstaff,  or  at  least  somewhat  in  sympathy  with  him,  if  he  is  to  please 
us  utterly.  Hence  mere  ugliness  is  given  not  to  Falstaff  but  to  Bar- 
dolph,  just  as  mere  braggadocio  is  given  to  Pistol,  mere  cowardice  to 
Gadshill,  Bardolph  and  Peto  (in  the  robbery  exploit),  and  various 
travesties  of  human  infirmities  are  shown  in  the  ragged  recruits. 
Falstaff  is  on  the  whole  a  proper  man.  Gout  gives  him  a  momentary 
halting;  the  humor  frequently  derived  from  deafness  is  supplied  in 
Falstaff  by  "the  disease  of  not  listening,  the  malady  of  not  marking" 
(2  Henri/  IV,  I,  ii,  77,  138,  275).  These  may  afford  us  amusement  for 
the  nonce;  but  to  produce  continuous-  laughter  on  the  physical  side, 
ugliness,  deformity,  or  even  an  assumed  affliction  could  scarcely  serve. 
If,  then,  a  physical  peculiarity  is  to  be  chosen  at  all,  it  should  be  one 
that  is  fundamental  and  symbolic,  in  the  light  of  which  all  his  othur 
characteristics  must  be  read. 


100  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

characteristics  are  largely  taken  from  the  conventional  humor- 
ous types  of  previous  literature.3  Now  the  _fat  of  Falstaff  is 
limited  by  the  ability  of  the  actor  to  perform  his  part;  but 
there  is  no  limit  to  the  amount  of  meat  and  drink  which  he  may 
be  said  to  have  consumed.  It  is  as  easy  to  say  a  barrel  as  a 
pint;  but  to  attain  the  height  of  humor  a  wild  and  unimagi- 
nable exaggeration  is  quite  as  futile  as  the  literal  truth.  Hence 
in  the  bill  which  the  Prince  rifles  from  the  sleeping  Falstaff 's 
pocket  he  finds  the  charge  for  "Sack,  2  gallons,"  with  ancho- 
vies and  more  sack  after  supper.  That  is,  the  exaggeration 
is  just  as  it  should  be  in  order  to  arouse  the  coveted  laugh — 
preposterous  but  not  unthinkable. 

But  there  is  one  limit  placed  upon  the  drinking  of  Falstaff 
which  is  of  genuine  significance.  Though  drunkenness  is  an  un- 
failing source  of  amusement  to  an  audience,  Falstaff,  as  Pro- 
fessor Bradley  has  noted,4  is  never  shown  on  the  stage  as  drunk. 
The  reason  is  that  the  drunken  man  is  an  object  of  contempt; 
and  Falstaff  to  be  greatly  and  victoriously  humorous  must  hold 
the  reins  of  humor  in  his  own  hands. 

The  Complete  Drinker  could  not  by  any  chance  be  unsocial. 
That  which  most  endears  Falstaff  to  us  is  his  good  fellowship. 
He  is  ever  the  booji^CjpjnjianLion.  He  makes  no  distinctions  of 
high  and  low.  We  are  made  happy  by  Falstaff  and  laugh  with 
him,  says  Bradley,  because  he  is_happy  and  at  ease ;  and 
Henry's  "rejection"  of  Falstaff  seems  to  this  critic  a  great 
blemish  in  the  character  of  Shakespeare's  supposedly  ideal 
English  king,  arguing  a  sternness  and  coldness  which  contrast 
sadly  with  Falstaff 's  warmth  of  affection  for  the  Prince.  But 
Falstaff 's  friendly  sociability,  like  the  lip-loyalty  of  Fellow- 
ship in  Everyman,  fails  to  stand  the  test  of  true  friendship; 
and  Shakespeare  seems  to  consider  this  as  essential  to  a  char- 
acter whose  mission  is  simply  and  solely  to  supply  humor.  Any 
deeper  note  would  be  fatal.  Though  Falstaff.  is  so  thoroughly 

sEven  the  parasitic  element  usual  in  the  glutton  of  Plautus  and 
Terence  appears  in  Falstaff's  ever  permitting  Prince  Hal  to  pay  the 
charges  of  their  drinking.  See  1  Henry  IV,  I,  ii,  55-62. 

*"The  Rejection  of  Falstaff/'  in  Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  Mid  Huri(  <j          101 

fond  of  the  Prince,5  yet  he  speaks  of  him  behind  his  back  in  a 
way  that  no  true  friend  could  ever  do.  It  is  always  humor- 
ously put — for  the  laugh's  sake;  indeed  on  one  occasion6  his 
abuse  of  the  Prince  and  Poins  is  abruptly  introduced  the  mo- 
ment the  Prince  and  Poins  enter  in  their  disguise,  obviously  in 
order  that  the  audience  may  enjoy  the^situation.  We  should 
not  take  this  more  seriously  than  Prince  Harry  himself  does ;  but 
it  must  be  noted  that  Falstaff's  open  disloyalty  is  only  capped 
and  completed  by  Henry's  rejection  of  him  on  becoming  king. 
This  humorous  retribution — if  it  is  that — must  be  considered 
later,  since  it  is  one  of  the  instances  where  the  humor  no  longer 
appeals  to  us.  The  point  under  present  consideration  is  only 
that  mere  sociability  and  comradeship,  carried  to  their  logical 
absurdity,  preclude  serious  friendship,  and  to  produce  genuine 
humor  must  be  merely  the  opposite  extreme  of  such  isolation, 
peevishness,  and  moroseness  as  we  find  humorously  treated  in 
Malvolio. 

Though  there  is,  of  course,  nothing  comic  about  sociability 
in  and  of  itself,  it  is  the  essential  basis  for  the  hilarity  and 
boistrous  mirth  which  engender  a  kindred  jollity  and  good  feel- 
ing in  the  audience.  Nothing  so  quickly  begets  laughter  as  a 
hearty  laugh.  The  mirthfulness  of  Falstaff  is  contagious.  His 
laughter  is  exuberant,  manifold,  uproarious,  recalling  Rabe- 
lais. And  if  we  are  offended  by  the  grossness  and  obscenity 
here  also,  that  much  must  be \ put  down  to  The  change  of  taste, 
which  is  after  all  less  complete  than  we  might  wish.  The 
humor  of  the  tavern  is  still  the  humor  of  the  bar-room;  and 
however  low  in  sort  and  painful  to  the  ears  of  most  of  us,  we 
must  agree  that  it  is  an  essential  part  of  the  game.  Here  I 
admit  gladly  that  the  humor  no  longer  makes  a  universal  ap- 
peal ;  but  the  alternative"  of  an  over-refinement  of  language, 
though  it  yields  such  capital  fun  in  Moliere's  Les  Predeuses 
ridicules,  was  here,  of  course,  out  of  the  question. 

Falstaff's  hearty  enjoyment  of  life  does  not  find  its  expres- 
sion in  empty  laughter"plie  is  supplied  with  an  abundance- — 

6"If  the  rascal  have  not  given  me  medicines  to  make  me  love  him, 
I'll  be  hanged;  it  could  not  be  else;  I  have  drunk  medicines"  (1  Henry 
IV,  II,  ii,  19). 

*2  Henry  IV,  II,  iv,  254  f. 


102  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

with  a  superabundance — of  wit.  Though  the  humor  of  charac- 
terization, as  the  surest  basis  for  permanence,  is  at  the  center 
of  Shakespeare's  treatment  of  Falstaff,  and  the  humor  of  jdt- 
uation,  always  essential  in  drama,  is  constantly  made  use  of 
(exclusively  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor),  the  presence 
of  witjs  necessary  if  all  possible  sources  of  amusement  are  to 
be  included.  It  is  true  that  the  utter  absence  of  wit  is  also  a 
sure  cause  of  laughter.  The  absurdity  of  mere  inanity  is  pat- 
ent, and  Shakespeare  frequently  employs  it  for  the  sake  of 
humor,  the  wit  being  supplied,  if  at  all,  at  the  character's  ex- 
pense. But  the  extreme  of  stupidity,  like  physical  ugliness  or 
deformity,  more  quickly  palls;  and  in  a  major  character,  and 
one  who  is  sympathetically  shown,  this  easier  source  of  amuse- 
ment was  quite  impossible.  Certainly  the  extreme  of  clever- 
ness, which  we  find  in  Falstaff,  can  produce  a  greater  humor- 
ous conception  than  the  most  massive  ignorance  and  stupidity 
that  ever  flourished. 

Wit  may  find  expression  in  speech  or  in  action,  and  both  the 
excellent  jest  and  the  cunning  device  are  unfailing  in  Falstaff. 
On  the  verbal  side  his  wit  too  often  takes  the  form  of  personal 
abuse,  the  very  essence  of  the  old  French  farces  (except  in  Pa- 
thelin,  the  best  of  all)  ;  and  again  we  must  admit  that  this  gross 
banter  and  raillery  no  longer  delights  us.  But  at  its  best,  Fal- 
taff's  wj.t  is  unsurpassed.  It  is  placed  in  rivalry  with  Prince 
Hal's  and  shines  by  comparison;  at  times  it  is  placed  in  con- 
trast with  the  witlessness  of  Shallo^v  or  the  unillumined  liter- 
alness  of  the  hostess,  just  as  his  very  bulk  is  travestied  by  the 
presence  of  his  diminutive  page.7  His  wit  is  not  subtle  like 
that  of  Benedick,  not  delicate  and  fanciful  like  Mercutio's, 
though  he  can  spgak.  the JLanguage  of  Euphues  when  he  wishes  ;8 
it  is  0]3en,coarse,  plebeian — the  mere  consummation  of  such 
wit  as  was  native  to  the  audience.  This  again  marks  Falstaff  as 
the  ideal  Elizabethan  jester.  He  is  not  only  witty  in  himself, 
not  alone  "the  cause  that  wit  is  in  other  men";  he  communi- 

7"!  do  here  walk  before  thee  like  a  sow  that  hath  overwhelm'd  all 
her  litter  but  one.  If  the  Prince  put  thee  into  my  service  for  any  other 
reason  than  to  set  me  off,  why  then  I  have  no  judgment."  2  Henry  IV, 
I,  ii,  11-15. 

*1  Henry  IV,  II,  iv,  437-461. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          103 

cates  his  sense  of  the  comic  to  the  spectators  standing  in  the~"7/ 
pit  because  he  thinks  their  thoughts  and  speaks  their  language.  I  / 
His  ir^pirjfy  jfl  a  fit!  on  I13-"  lasted  better  because  this  is  less  sub-  II  ••- 
ject  to  the  change  of  taste.    We  still  enjoy  the  devices  of  Key- ' 
nard  the  Fox  and  the  exploits  of  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  as  we 
do  our  contemporary  Brer  Rabbit  and  Huckleberry  Finn. 

It  is  a  notable  fact  that  this  characteristic  of  an  astute  and 
ready  wit  is  the  only  thing  conspicuously  absent  from  Falstaff 
as  he  is  shown  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  Here  he  ap- 
pears not  as  a  sympathetic  character  but  as  a  dupe  and  fool. 
He  is  not  the  purveyor  of  humor  but  the  butt  of  ridicule.  He 
is  just  as  fat^just  as  crass  and  earthly,  just  as  old^and  sensual, 
as  cowardly  and  boastful,  as  light-hearted  and  disloyal  as  ever; 
but  lacking  his  former  shrewdness  and  resource  he  seems  but 
the  portly  shadow  of  himself.  This  proves,  better  than  the  old 
and  wholly  probable  tradition,  that  The  Merry  Wives  was  writ- 
ten hastily  and  to  order;  for  the  wit  and  ingenuity  of  a  Fal- 
staff may  not  be  supplied,  even  by  a  Shakespeare,  under  the 
pressure  of  an  imminent  production. 

But  Falstaff 's  fertility  of  fmagination  results  in  his  being  a 
most  inveterate  and  amazing  liar.  Morgann,  in  the  remark- 
able essay  I  have  referred  to,  says,  "The  fictions  of  Falstaff 
are  so  preposterous  and  incomprehensible,  that  one  may  fairly 
doubt  if  they  ever  were  intended  for  credit."  If  not,  so  much 
the  worse  for  Falstaff,  so  far  as  his  possibilities  for  providing 
humor  are  concerned.  Shakespeare  makes  Falstaff  a  liar 
always  and  only  for  the  sake  of  humor;  he  does  not  seem  to 
care  whether  the  lie_  is  intended  for  credit  or  is  not.  If  to  tell 
a  lie  apparent  in  the  telling  isjhmny,  Falstaff  will  do* that;  if 
to  attempt  a  deception  and  be  convicted  of  it  is  amusing,  Fal- 
staff will  deceive  ;9  if  to  swear  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet  to 
marry  a  woman  whom  he  merely  means  to  cozen  and  betray  is  " 
to  provide  mirth  for  a  rough  and  heartless  audience,  Falstaff 
will  not  scruple.  But  after  hearing  Falstaff  tell  so  many  lies 
as  innocent  as  Munchausen's  because  they  are  as  incredible  and 

'Thus,  in  his  account  of  his-  Gadshill  exploit,  where  he  raises  the  num- 
ber of  buckram  men  from  two  till  it  reaches  eleven,  his  lies  are 
"gross  as  a  mountain,  open,  palpable";  but  his  hacking  of  his  sword 
is  an  attempt  to  deceive,  not  humorous  except  in  its  detection. 


104  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

irresponsible,  the  audience  comes  to  accept  him  and  to  laugh  at 
him  in  his  capacity  as  liar;  and  hence  they  are  prepared  to 
laugh  as  often  as  Falstaff  is  prepared  to  lie  (which  is  always). 
When  he  pacifies  the  credulous  Hostess  he  is  performing  his 
role;  and  an  audience  nourished  on  Ibsen  could  no  more  be 
expected  to  discriminate  against  him  than  one  whicli  remem- 
bered the  interludes  of  John  Heywoody 

The  same  attitude  which  makes  Falstaff  a  liar  makes  him  a 
boaster  also,  and  his  boasts  are  treated  by  Shakespeare  in  very 
much  the  same  manner.  Some  are  mere  palpable  impossibili- 
ties and  whimsical  absurdities;  but  at  times  Falstaff  talks  in 
quite  the  manner  of  the  conventional  braggart,  and  the  humor 
lies  injiis  pxpn^rfi  HJI^  hnmjJMop.  It  is  true  that  he  is  never 
•qultejdiscomfited,  for  his  _wi£.  is  always  sufficient  to  save  him 
(except  in  the  final  instance,  of  which  I  shall  have  more  to  say 
presently)  ;  but  the  implication  of  the  boast  is  that  Falstaff  is 
/  conceited.  Now  though  nothing  is  funnier  than  vast  conceit 
,  (on  the  stage!) — Shakespeare  is  at  great  pains  to  save  his  hero 
j  from  such  an  excessive  and  unrelieved  vanity  as  might  make 
I  him  contemptible  or  offensive  to  an  audience.  There  is  some- 
thing about  every  sort  of  pride  but  the  highest  that  arouses 
instant  antagonism,  and  this  (if  we  may  dare  in  this  instance 
to  deduce  his  personal  attitude  from  his  dramatic  work — 
always  a  dangerous  and  alluring  thing  to  do)  Shakespeare 
himself  seems  to  have  keenly  felt.  Mere  pomposity  is  ridiculed 
in  his  first  comic  creation,  Don  Armado,  and  is  travestied  again 
with  something  of  bitterness  and  spite  in  Julius  Caesar.  Fal- 
staff is^  egotistical,  yes.  He  is  called  "a  proudjack " ;10  he 
urges  with  much  energy  that  his  capture  of  Colville  may  be 
chronicled;  enacting  in  turn  King  Henry  and  Prince  Hal,  he 
praises  himself  to  his  own  hu£e  heart's  content.  He  is  rich  in 
egregious  self-satisfaction  and  self-flattery.  And  yet,  on  the 
other" hand,  he~!s~capable  of  jspeaking  (as  Bottom  would  put 
it)  in  a  "monstrous  little  voice;"  he  confesses  his  manifold 
sins  wkhoTit_the  least  reserve ;  he  expose-s  his  own  weaknesses 

™1  Henry  TV,  II,  iv,  11.  "John  Falstaff,  knight,"  says  Poins;  "every 
man  must  know  that,  as  oft  as  he  has  occasion  to  name  himself." 
«  Henry  IV,  II,  ii,  118. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          105 

with  complete  abandon.  Even  his  self-pity  and  self-exonera- 
tion are  given  with  preposterous  humility:  "Dost  thou  hear, 
Hal?  Thou  knowest  in  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell;  and 
what  should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of  villainy? 
Thou  seest  I  have  more  flesh  than  another  man,  and  therefore- 
more  frailty."  He  repents  (for  the  time  being)  in  a  way 
which  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  the  merely  proud  and  boast- 
ful. /Boasting  so  often  of  qualities  to  the  possession  of  which 
everyone  knows  he  really  makes  not  the  slightest  claim,  he 
makes  it  impossible  for  us  to  take  his  more  serious  braggado- 
cio amiss ;  for  he  will  boast  of  his  injured  innocence,  which  he 
solemnly  maintains  the  Prince  has  corrupted,  and  assuming  a 
virtuousness  which  he  so  sadly  lacks,  he  will  affect  to  grieve 
over  the  sins  and  evils  of  the  world:  "There  lives  not  three 
good  men  unKang'd  in  England,  and  one  of  them  is  fat  and 
grows  old." 

But  Falstaff 's  boasting  of  his  virtue  and  his  scrupulous  re- 
gard for  the  truth  is  not  the  same  thing  as  his  boasting  of  his 
courage,  for  this  quality  he  seriously  believes  he  has.  This  is 
proved  by  the  guarded  way  in  which  he  sometimes  puts  it :  "  In- 
deed, I  am  not  John  of  Gaunt,  your  grandfather;  but  yet  no 
coward,  Hal,"11  and  yet  the  very  fact  that  he  does  boast  of  his  \ 
valor  is  all  the  proof  we  need  that  he  is  really  a  coward.  This 
is  the  point  in  his  character  which  is  most  under  dispute.  Mor- 
gann's  famous  essay  is  devoted  largely  to  an  attempt  to  clear 
Falstaff  of  the  charge  of  cowardice.  We  are  reminded  that  our 
comic  hero  is  entrusted  with  a  command;  that  he  leads  his  sol- 
diers into  battle;  that  he  is  present  at  an  important  conference 
with  only  the  King,  the  Prince,  and  three  or  four  others  of  high- 
est note ;  that  the  famous  rebel  Sir  John  Colville  surrenders  be- 
cause of  Falstaff 's  reputation  for  valor.  Morgann  continues: 
"Rank  and  wealth  were  not  only  connected  with  the  point  of 
honour,  but  with  personal  strength  and  natural  courage  If  the 
ideas  of  courage  and  birth  were  strongly  associated  in  the  days  of 
Shakespeare,  then  would  the  assignment  of  high  birth  to  Fal- 
staff carry,  and  be  intended  to  carry  along  with  it,  the  associated 


Henry  IV,  II,  ii,  70. 


106  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

idea  of  Courage."  The  same  plea  might  be  made  for  Sir  An- 
drew Aguecheek ! 

Professor  Stoll,  on  the  other  hand,  is  as  solemn  in  his  elabo- 
rate proof  that  Falstaff  is_&  coward  as  was  Morgann  in  exon- 
erating him.  Both  alike  miss  the  essential  point  :\that  cowardice 
is  supremely  funny  only  when  it  is  set  in  contrast  with  a  show 
of  courage.^  If  Falstaff  is  not  a  coward  (as  Morgann  will  have 
it),  he  is  not  in  this  particular  an  amusing  character  but  an 
heroic  one,  whose  occasional  weaknesses  are  to  be  pitied  and  con- 
doned; if  he  is  the  mere_  buffoon  and  poltroon  that  Stoll  insists 
upon,  he  may  be  amusing  certainly,  but  he  is  too  contemptible 
to  be  greatly  humorous.  Falstaff  is  valorous  enough  to  eject  the 
quarrelsome  Pistol,  who  is  much  more  like  the  miles  gloriosus 
of  Latin  comedy.  When  Snare  is  told  he  must  arrest  Falstaff 
he  answers,  "It  may  chance  cost  some  of  our  lives,  for  he  will 
stab."12  Justice  Shallow  remembers  his  breaking  Skogan's  head 
at  the  court-gate  "when  (a  was  a  crack  not  thus  high."13  But 
all  this,  like  Falstaff 's  knighthood,  his  going  into  battle,  and  the 
like,  is  only  the  essential  setting  for  his  running  away  at  Gads- 
hill,  for  his  falling  down  and  pretending  to  be  dead  in  order  to 
avoid  being  killed  by  the  doughty  Douglas,  for  his  stabbing  the 
dead  body  of  Hotspur,  for  his  carrying  in  place  of  a  pistol  a  bot- 
tle of  sack.  To  the  King's  conference  he  contributes  only  a  jest; 
and  at  its  close,  showing  in  contrast  to  the  words  we  have  just 
heard  from  the  others,  he  has  his  famous  catechism  on  Honor. 

But  the  catechism  on  Honor  is  neither  the  confession  of  a 
mere  craven,  as  is  Parolles'  soliloquy  before  his  seizure  by  the 
soldiers,14  nor  the  silly  waggery  of  a  buffoon,  like  Launcelot  Gob- 
bo's  colloquy  with  his  conscience.15  Read  alternately  with  these 
Falstaff 's  catechism  seems  to  fall  little  short  of  sober  wisdom. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Masefield,  in  his  somewhat  erratic  little  book  on 
Shakespeare  says:  "Falstaff  is  that  deeply  interesting  thing, 
a  man  who  is  base  because  he  is  wise.  Our  justest,  wisest  brain 
dwelt  upon  Falstaff  longer  than  upon  any  other  character,  be- 

123  Henry  IV,  II,  i,  12. 

132  Henry  IV,  III,  ii,  33. 

uAll's  Well  That  Ends  Well,  IV,  i,  27  f. 

^Merchant  of  Venice,  II,  ii,  1-33. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          107 

cause  he  is  the  world  and  the  flesh,  able  to  endure  while  Hotspur 
flames  to  his  death."  Falstaff 's  cowardice  has  always  some  jus- 
tification in  the  coldjight  of  reason.  ' '  The  better  part  of  valor  is 
discretion/'18  is  a  proverb  which  the  sane  world  approves.  Fal- 
staff is  an  old  man  and  fat ;  he  has  no  more  chance  against  Doug- 
las than  he  had  against  the  two  young  rogues  in  buckram  after 
his  companions  had  run  away.  (Any  man  who  will  let  himself > 
be  killed  needlessly  when  he  could  save  his  life  by  a  show  of 
cowardice  has  no  sense  of  humor  !^  •' 

In  each  of  the  qualities  we  have  been  considering,  Shakespeare 
has  given  Falstaff  one  of  two  equally  possible  humorous  ex- 
tremes. I  have  already  referred  to  the  supercilious  aloofness 
and  fatuxms  virtuosity  of  Malvolio.  It  is  so  throughout.  If  a 
palpable  lie  on  the  stage  will  almost  unfailingly  provoke  a  laugh, 
we  must  remember  on  the  other  hand  that  the  humor  of  Mol-  ~ 
iere's  great  comedy,  Le  Misanthrope,  consists  largely  in  Alceste's  \T 
inordinate  propensity  for  telling  the  truth.  Humor  may  be  de- 
rived alike  from  extravagant  ^rj£g_j>jL-ridwilf>iis  modesty ;  we  y% 
may  find  it  in  the  opulent  megalomania  of  Sir  Epicure  Mammon 
or  in  the  cringing,  fawning  humility  of  Uriah  Heep.  The  alter- 
native to  cowardice  is  foolhardiness,  and  this  is  just  as  legiti- 
mate a  source  of  humor  as  faintheartedness.  The  heroism  of 
Don  Quixote  is  quite  as  humorous  as  the  cowardice  of  Falstaff. 
With  what  magnificent  courage  he  charges  upon  the  windmills ! 
Indeed,  the  set  of  extremes  which  Cervantes  chooses  are  through- 
out almost  the  exact  opposite  of  Shakespeare's  list.  The  Eng- 
lish knight  is  fat ;  the  Spanish  don  is  gaunt  and  tall :  the  former 
is  sensual  and  worldly-wise ;  the  latter  is  always  visionary  and  a 
most  lovable  fool;  the  one  is  a  boasting  toward;  the  other  is 
ridiculously  heroic ;  Falstaff  is  the  quintessence  of  crass  material- 
ism ;  Don  Q-uixote  is  the  personification  of  an  impossible  ideal- 
ism. Between  these  two  humorous  extremes  lies  all  humanity. 

It  is  obvious  from  what  I  have  just  said  that  Falstaff  could 
not  be  without  that  most  distressing  and  distasteful  of  his  many 
sins — his  open  and  beastly  sensuality.  One  wishes  that  this  sub- 
ject might  be  avoided;  but  to  leave  sensuality  out  of  Falstaff 

i«l  Henry  IV,  V,  v.  120.  * 


*— s 


108  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

would  be  like  leaving  melancholy  out  of  Hamlet.  As  in  the  case 
/  ,  of  his  foul  language  on  which  I  have  touched,  this  is  one  of  the 
things  which  offend  us  today,  and  which  therefore  we  can  hardly 
read  of  or  witness  with  amusement.  Yet  how  vast  is  the  extent 
of  humorous  literature  which  finds  its  theme  in  this  forbidden 
topic  !  If,  setting  up  his  own  taste  as  a  criterion,  one  should 
solemnly  declare  that  lechery  is  not  a  successful  subject  for  hum- 
or, the  mass  of  evidence  to  the  contrary  would  overwhelm  him. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Falstaff's  fat,  his  foul  language,  and 
his  moral  laxity  were  what  most  delighted  his  first  audience,  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  puzzle  his  last  critic.  If,  as 
we  may  fondly  hope,  the  grossest  of  sins  has  passed  forever  be- 
yond the  reach  of  humor,  then  Falstaff  is  in  this  particular  a 
limited  and  not  an  eternally  humorous  character  ;  but  if  we  may 
not  nurse  this  pious  delusion  we  must  consider  Falstaff  's  lewd- 
ness  as  a  humorous  thing.  As  in  the  case  of  his  other  charac- 
teristics —  his  gluttony,  his  unconscionable  lying,  his  braggado- 
cio, his  cowardice  —  the  fat  knight  exhibits  that  particular  sort  of 
humor  in  this  connection  which  was  consistent  with  his  character 
as,  fundamentally  conceived.  Imagine  him  if  you  can  with  the 
false  sanctimoniousness  of  Tribulation  Wholesome,  or  the  ridic- 
ulous prudery  of  Joseph  Andrews  !  But  as  his  lying  is  reflected 
in  the  light  of  his  histrionic  imagination,  as  his  boastfulness  is 
qualified  by  his  naive  and  disarming  lack  of  dignity  and  his 
cowardice  by  his  witty  interpretation  of  it  as  a  worldly-wise  dis- 
cretion, so  even  his  rampant  and  insatiable  sensuality  is  guarded 
from  any  cruelly  directed  lustfulness  or  waTtton  disregard  of  in- 
nocence. Falstaff  is  no  Tarquin,  no  Jack  Cade. 

I  spoke  of  Falstaff  's  character  as  fundamentally  consistent; 
and  so  it  is,  even  though  he  may  drink  more  sack  than  is  physio- 
logically possible  or  boast  at  times  with  a  psychologically  unat- 
tainable wink.  Yet  a  certain  inconsistency,  or  seeming  incon- 
sistency is  one  of  the  ingredients  of  any  humorous  compound, 
and  hence  if  Falstaff  is  to  be  made  exactly  as  funny  as  he  can 
possibly  be,  this  essential  element  of  humor  may  not  be  omitted. 


That  it  ^jDrejsent^^  noted.     Bradley,  for 

example,  speaksofthe  incongruity  of  Falslaff  's  fat  body  and 
nimble  wit,  the  infirmities  of  age  and  youthfulness  of  heart.    As 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          109 

his  knighthood  carried  the  suggestion  of  a  valor  which  (in  spite 
of  Maurice  Morgann)  was  not  there,  so  Falstaff 's  years  suggest- 
ed to  the  audience  a  dignity  and  sobriety  which  he  most  con- 
spicuously did  not  have.  The  sins  of  youth  are  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent normal.  What  the  Elizabethan  audience  would  take  as  quite 
justifiable  in  Prince  Hal  would  be  regarded  as  grotesquely  out  of 
place  in  the  white-haired  Falstaff.  ' '  That  reverend  vice, ' '  says 
the  Prince,  imitating  his  father's  voice  in  their  imaginary  inter- 
view,17 "that  gray^  iniquity,  that  father  ruffian,  that  vanity  in 
years";  and  with  each  combination,  if  Shakespeare's  art  suc- 
ceeded, came  a  laugh. 

A  more  serious  problem  attends  our.  consideration  of  the  last 
two  characteristics  of  Falstaff  which  we  may  regard  as  funda- 
mental,, his  cruelty  and  his  avarice.  These  may  well  be  taken 
together,  since  they  are  for  the  most  part  associated  in  his 
actions,  from  his  robbery  of  the  travellers  to  his  treatment  of 
poor  Shallow.  Cruelty  is  a  thing  which  is  not  easily  associated 
with  a  humorous  character ;  and  avarice,  where  it  is  so  as- 
sociated, nowhere  else,  I  think,  is  found  hi  one  who  makes  his 
bid  for  our  good  will  and  hearty  applause.  Where  we  do  find 
these  traits  in  Elizabethan  cnmpdy;  as  in  Volpone  or  Sir  Giles 
Overreach,  we  are  alienated  instantly,  as  was  the  author's  obvious 
intention.  Cruelty,  moreover,  and  avarice  are  appropriate  to 
Falstaff 's  age,  and  lack  the  absurdity  of  incongruity  which 
would  attend  a  youthful  sentimentality  and  recklessness,  even 
though  these  could  have  been  substituted  without  any  essential 
inconsistency  in  the  Falstaff  formula.  It  is  much  more  amus- 
ing to  see  a  man  soft-hearted  and  absurdly  lavish  than  brutal 
and  grasping.  If  Shakespeare  was  endeavoring  to  supply  in 
Falstaff  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  fun,  and  to  keep  him 
well  within  the  good  will  of  the  audience,  why  did  he  add  these 
disconcerting  and  unnecessary  attributes? 

I  venture  an  answer  apparently  quite  out  of  keeping  with  all 
that  I  have  been  saying  thus  far:  Shakespeare  represented 
Falstaff  as  avaricious  and  cruel  not  because  these  were  amusing 
qualities  but  because  Falstaff  was  cruel  and  avaricious:  because 

ni  Henry  IV,  II,  iv,  449. 


110  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

he  was  above  all  things  carnal;  because  he  could  not  have  been 
lavish  and  soft-hearted, — he  was  not  that  kind  of  man. 

For  I  take  it  that  no  character  was  ever  put  together  on  a 
formula  and  forthwith  went  out  and  deceived  the  world  with 
an  assumption  of  reality  that  he  did  not  have.  Mr.  Stoll  com- 
plains that  with  our  almost  religious  reverence  for  Shakespeare 
we  are  prone  to  interpret  his  characters  not  as  fabrications  of 
fiction  but  as  living  and  breathing  men  and  women,  and  that 
we  judge  their  actions  by  the  laws  of  men  instead  of  by  the 
canons  of,  art.  But  that  which  separates  the  mere  literary  pre- 
tender from  the  rightful  heir  is  just  this:  the^true  artist  knows 
his  people  as  people,  not  as  phantoms  in  his  brain.  Various 
novelists  have  recorded  that  their  characters  would  sometimes 
do  things  quite  contrary  to  the  author's  own  intention.  I  believe 
that  no  writer  ever  created  a  character  who  so  successfully 
seemed  to  live  as  Falstaff  does  without  giving  him  something 
more  than  the  sum  of  his  various  characteristics.  This  some- 
thing more  is  life ;  and  in  judging  the  actions  of  one  of  Shake- 
speare's men  we  do  well  to  employ  the  same  standards  by  which 
we  judge  all  men. 

When  Falstaff  plans  so  coldly  to  fleece  poor  Justice  Shallow 
and  sees  no  reason  why  he  should  not — "If  the  young  dace  be 
a  bait  for  the  old  pike,  I  see  no  reason  in  the  law  of  nature  but 
I  may  snap  at  him ' ' — 18we  resent  his  conduct,  though  we  applaud 
as  unscrupulous  devices  in  many  a  picaresque  hero.  For  Shal- 
low himself  we  care  little ;  but  for  Falstaff  we  do  care.  He  has 
become  for  us  so  human  and  so  real  a  character,  so  much  our 
friend,  that  we  cannot  choose  but  resent  his  conduct.  It  is  when 
a  crime  comes  near  to  us  that  we  feel  its  horror.  In  Synge's 
Playboy  of  the  Western  World,  the  peasants  at  the  Mayo  inn  are 
charmed  with  Christy  because  he  has  "killed  his  da";  but  when 
old  Mahon  arrives  not  killed  at  all,  and  Christy  to  regain  his 
prestige  apparently  kills  him  in  their  very  sight,  they  are  justly 
horrified.  It  is  too  near  to  them  now.  "There's  a  great  gap" 
says  Pegeen,  "between  a  gallons  story  and  a  dirty  deed."  It 
is  so  with  our  humanizing  of  Falstaff.  We  have  taken  him  into 

isg  Henry  IV,  III,  ii,  355. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          111 

our  hearts  and  our  homes.  His  deception  of  Shallow  becomes 
for  us  not  a  humorous  exploit  but  a  dirty  deed. 

Yet  if  we  think  of  Shakespeare's  people  as  real,  we  do  no 
more  than  did  the  Elizabethan  audiences ;  we  do  exactly  what  the 
author  wishes  us  to  do,  and  just  so  far  as  Shakespeare  is  a  suc- 
cessful dramatist  we  must  do  so.  But  the  difference  is  this: 
their  interpretation  of  Falstaff  was  no  doubt  of  a  jolly  old 
buffoon  who  delighted  them  with  his  cowardice  and  sensuality 
and  whose  cruelty  and  avarice  therefore  no  more  offended  them 
than  it  would  have  in  such  a  Falstaff  who  lived  around  the 
corner.  It  offends  us  because  our  attitude  toward  life  is  dif- 
ferent. 

A  similar  explanation,  though  pointing  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection, must  be  given  to  the  "rejection"  of  Falstaff  by  the 
young  King  Henry  V.  When  Shakespeare  delivers  Falstaff  up 
to  his  punishment  he  does  it  apparently,  as  I  have  said,  to  get 
ft  laugh:  the  fat  knight's  great  expectations  are  brought  to 
nothing,  while  Henry  V  stands  before  the  audience  a  painted 
hero.  To-day  we  rebel.  The  situation  is  essentially  comic  but 
we  cannot  laugh.  As  performed  by  the  Stratford  players  it  is 
quite  as  solemn  and  appealing  as  we  now  consider  the  final  exit 
of  Shylock.  There  is  no  doubt  that  in  both  instances  the  Eliza- 
bethan audience  howled  and  hooted  with  joy — in  one  case  at 
the  just  punishment  of  the  cruel  and  avaricious  monster,  in  the 
other  at  the  sudden  and  complete  discomfiture  of  the  non- 
plussed boaster  and  buffoon. 

Now  the  point  of  Mr.  Stoll  's  criticisms  is  that  this  Elizabethan 
attitude  is  the  only  proper  one  for  us  to  take  to-day ;  that  because 
the  Elizabethan  audience  howled  we  should  also  howl;  or,  fail- 
ing to  do  that,  remain  critically  silent,  saying  only  that  "this 
once  was  funny."  This  does  not  seem  to  me  the  necessary 
alternative.  For  it  does  not  follow  that  to  get  a  correct  con- 
temporary view  (if  that  is  possible)  exhausts  the  author's  own 
reading  of  his  character.  "Our  poet  always  stands  by  public 
opinion, ' '  says  Stoll,  ' '  and  his  English  kings  and  Roman  heroes 
are  to  him  what  they  were  to  his  age. ' '  He  might  as  well  have 
said  that  the  actual  people  whom  Shakespeare  knew  meant  the 
same  thing  to  him  that  they  did  to  one  another.  The  supreme 


112  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

\ 

genius  always  transcends  his  time  and  creates  characters  who 
may  by  no  means  be  judged  by  a  set  of  contemporary  standards. 
How  many  a  genius  has  himself  realized  that  he  stood  ahead 
of  his  times!  Turgenev  wrote  a  novel  which  is  still  unread — 
which  he  arranged  to  have  published  a  hundred  years  after  his 
death. 

The  dramatist  must  of  course  appeal  to  his  immediate  au- 
dience; and  we  know  that  Shakespeare  was  not  thinking  of 
posterity,  as  Turgenev  was.  But  one  who  writes  as  Shakespeare 
wrote  gives  forth  what  is  in  him  without  too  complete  a  sur- 
render to  the  necessity  of  having  his  play  "clapperclawed  with 
the  palms  of  the  vulgar."  He  was  one  who  would  let  the  cen- 
sure of  one  of  the  judicious  "o'erweigh  a  whole  theatre  of 
others."  His  last  comment  on  Harry's  rejection  of  Falstaff 
is  to  be  found  in  a  line  in  Henry  V:  "The  King  has  killed  his 
heart."  But  that  still  he  was  willing  to  throw  a  sop  to  Cer- 
berus, witness  his  speedy  resurrection  of  Falstaff  shorn  of  all 
his  glory — (resurrection  of  the  body!) — in  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor! 

The  same  thing  is  true  of  Falstaff 's  great  contemporary,  Don 
Quixote,  his  only  rival,  in  the  realm  of  humor.  Cervantes,  who 
died  in  the  same  year  as  Shakespeare,  rested  no  more  than  he  in 
the  narrow  confinement  of  a  particular  age.  The  romances  of 
chivalry  had  presented  the  adventures  of  many  heroic  heroes 
before  Don  Quixote;  and  though  Cervantes'  book  was  recog- 
nized as  a  burlesque,  I  see  no  reason  for  supposing  that  what 
contemporary  Spain  saw  in  the  mild,  erratic  knight-errant  was 
quite  all  there  was  to  see ;  nor  because  we  find  a  deeper  appeal 
in  him  to-day  does  it  follow  that  we  are  reading  meanings 
into  Cervantes'  work  of  which  he  was  wholly  innocent.  So 
while  we  fairly  shudder  at  certain  things  in  Falstaff  at  which 
the  Elizabethans  may  have  punched  each  others'  ribs  and 
roared,  we  feel  a  sympathy  almost  tear-compelling  for  some  of 
Don  Quixote's  oddities  of  behavior  which  could  have  made  no 
such  appeal  to  the  contemporary  Spaniards.  The  question 
amounts  to  just  this:  did  Cervantes  know  what  he  was  doing? 
And  did  Shakespeare? 

So  far,  then,  as  Falstaff  fails  to  be  completely  funny  for  us 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          113 

to-day,  he  fails  because  he  is  something  more  and  better — 
a  piece  of  real  life.  Shakespeare  may  have  set  out  to  portray 
a  comic  character;  but  if  he  did,  he  soon  saw  looking  up  at  him 
from  his  manuscript  a  living  man.  Falstaff's  humorous  char- 
acteristics may  have  been  derived  from  Latin  comedy  or JJrench 
farce  or  English  interlude,  but  he  made  them  his  own  and  wore 
them  bravely ;  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  would  have  been 
pretty  much  what  he  was  if  he  had  had  no  more  antecedents 
than  Deucalion 's  stones.  If  we  met  a  hungry  hanger-on  or  a 
bragging  bully  in  real  life,  we  should  not  feel  that  he  was  what 
he  was  because  he  had  been  delving  in  Plautus.  The  great 
"source"  of  the  great  writer  is  contemporary  life;  but  the  char- 
acteristics of  men  do  not  differ  vastly  as  the  world  wags  on. 

And  so  it  is  that  the  comic  traits  of  Falstaff  have  not  only 
their  earlier  "originals"  but  their  later  parallels.  Lechery  re- 
mains to  the  end  a  constantly  recurring  theme  in  Restoration 
comedy;  diminutive  stature  is  presented  for  our  laughter  in 
Fielding's  Tom  Thumb  the  Great;  the  tavern-haunting  squire 
fond  of  low  company  appears  in  Tony  Lumpkin,  the  jolly  blus- 
tering coward  in  Bob  Acres,  the  witty  and  ingenious  liar  in 
Figaro.  Coming  down  to  the  dramatists  of  our  own  time,  we 
have  the  lie  for  the  laugh's  sake  in  Wilde's  The  Importance  of 
Being  Ernest;  we  have  thievery,  gross  language,  and  the  triumph 
of  cunning  over  justice  in  Hauptmann's  Der  Biberpelz  and 
Der  rote  Hahn;  inconstancy  is  humorously  treated  in  Schnitz- 
ler's  Anatol,  the  frustrating  of  great  expectations  in  Pinero's 
Thunderbolt,  and  noise  and  bluster  in  Tchekhov's  little  comedy, 
The  Bear. 

But  for  the  most  part,  the  stock  devices  of  comedy  look  some- 
what somber  under  the  lengthening  shadow  of  Ibsen,  and  hu- 
man frailties  at  which  we  used  to  laugh  now  make  their  bid  for 
sympathy  or  even  for  approval.  Thus  the  ridiculous  nose  of 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  though  a  source  of  fun  by  the  way,  makes 
in  the  end  a  pretty  tragedy.  The  coward  and  boaster  becomes 
a  triumphant  hero  in  Synge's  Playboy  of  the  Western  World. 
The  triumph  of  worldly  wisdom  over  heroic  patriotism  is  ap- 


114  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

proved  and  applauded  in  Shaw's  Arms  and  the  Man.™  That 
old  and  unfailing  comic  device,  the  turning  of  the  tables,  affords 
but  little  mirth  in  Strindberg  's  professed  comedy,  Comrades,  and 
none  at  all  in  Hervieu's  Les  Tenailles.  Cruelty  and  avarice 
form  the  theme  of  Becque's  Les  Cor~beaux,  but  at  this  "comedy" 
nobody  was  ever  asked  to  smile. 

All  this  argues  an  attitude  of  mind  at  the  present  moment 
essentially  different  from  the  Elizabethan.  Yet  there  is  no 
escape  from  Shakespeare's  method,  which  is  the  essential  method 
of  all  humorous  characterization.  The  difference  is  only  in  the 
inevitable  change  of  taste  and  of  the  actual  behavior  of  con- 
temporary models. 

i^Note  the  contrast  in  the  treatment  of  a  situation  almost  indentical 
in  Falstaff's  having  a  bottle  for  a  pistol  and  Bluntschli's  having  choco- 
late. "I've  no  ammunition,"  he  says.  "What  use  are  cartridges  in 
battle?  I  always  carry  chocolate  instead.  .  .  .  You  can  always  tell 
an  old  soldier  by  the  inside  of  his  holsters  and  cartridge  boxes.  The 
young  ones  carry  pistols  and  cartridges;  the  old  ones,  grub." 


THE  " DYING  LAMENT* 
BY  EGBERT  ADGER  LAW 

I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter  merrily 
set  down.  The  Winter's  Tale. 

Both  Kittredge  in  his  notable  introduction  to  the  Cambridge 
Edition  of  the  English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads,  and  Gum- 
mere  in  The  Popular  Ballad,  find  it  necessary  to  differentiate 
several  types  of  ballads  which  are  not  popular,  which  do  not 
belong  to  the  folk.  Chief  of  these  are  the  imitated  ballad  by 
the  conscious  literary  artist,  like  Scott's  "Jock  o'  Hazeldean" 
and  Kipling's  "Danny  Deever";  the  minstrel  ballad,  such  as 
"The  Boy  and  the  Mantle";  and  the  broadside,  otherwise  known 
as  the  "street,"  or  the  "journalistic"  ballad,  of  which  perhaps 
the  best  known  example  is  "The  Babes  in  the  Wood."  Poems 
of  all  three  classes  are  entitled  to  the  name  of  ballads  in  that 
they  are  songs  that  tell  stories.  Moreover,  they  are  generally 
written  in  conventional  ballad  meter,  and  they  have  consist- 
ently appealed  to  a  large  class  of  common  folk,  of  whom,  by 
whom,  and  for  whom  most  of  them  were  written.  Neverthe- 
less authorities  on  folk-lore  the  world  over  rightly  deny  to  these 
ballads  a  place  amid  the  poetry  of  the  people  on  the  ground 
that  they  are  the  possession  of  individual  authors,  rather  than 
of  the  whole  folk.  They  are  not  handed  down  by  oral  tradi- 
tion, nor  are  they  in  any  sense  products  of  communal  author- 
ship. 

One  type  of  these  outlawed  ballads  that  I  have  not  seen  an- 
alyzed I  wish  to  discuss,  making  no  plea  for  its  consideration 
as  genuine  folk-literature,  but  rather  as  first  cousin,  so  to  speak, 
of  folk-lore,  showing  the  general  family  resemblance  and  differ- 
ing on  such  points  as  bring  out  most  clearly  what  we  mean  by 
"poetry  of  the  people."  This  might  be  called  "The  Dying 
Lamenf,"  a  definitely  marked  genre  of  the  broadside  ballad,  be- 
longing chiefly  to  the  Elizabethan  period. 

By  "The  Dying  Lament"  I  mean  a  ballad  purporting  to  give 
the  final  speech  of  a  man  who  knows  that  he  is  about  to  die. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  practically  all  the  broadside  ballads  of  the 

[115] 


116  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

type  have  to  do  with  a  criminal  on  the  scaffold  addressing  those 
who  have  come  to  see  him  hanged.  Such  speeches  are  sometimes 
made  to-day.  Three  centuries  ago  they  were  more  common  and 
addressed  to  larger  audiences.  A  fine  collection  of  such  speeches 
is  found  in  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs.1  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
these  ballad-writers  stick  less  closely  to  historical  truth  than  did 
Foxe.  The  broadsides  were  written  for  tradesmen,  mechanics, 
and  the  serving  classes,  and  judging  from  contemporary  allu- 
sions must  have  been  extremely  popular.  Frequent  allusions 
to  them,  almost  all  contemptuous,  occur  in  the  plays  of  Shake- 
speare, Dekker,  Heywood,  and  other  dramatists  of  the  time ;  and 
there  is  reason  to  believe  that  with  them  the  walls  of  every  ale- 
house were  well  plastered.  These  broadsides  seem  to  have  been 
composed  by  such  homely  craftsmen  as  the  well-known  Thomas 
Deloney,  and  printed  on  large  sheets  of  paper,  with  a  crude 
wood-cut  generally  for  ornamentation.  Many  of  them  have  been 
preserved  and  are  to  be  found  in  the  Roxburghe  and  similar 
collections. 

The  lives  and  adventures  of  outlaw  heroes  have  furnished  a 
favorite  topic  for  the  popular  muse  in  all  ages,  and  it  is  not 
surprising  that  the  Elizabethan  masses  showed  a  morbid  in- 
terest in  the  capital  punishment  of  notorious  criminals.  It  is 
an  interest  existing  in  a  more  civilized  age.  But  in  the  days 
of  Elizabeth  men  wished  to  see  and  hear  all  there  was  to  a 
hanging.  Since  newspapers  did  not  exist,  they  depended  chiefly 
on  the  ballad-makers  for  the  news;  and  these  balladists  strove 
to  give  them  all  information  procurable  or  inventable  concerning 
an  execution..  To  the  act  of  hanging  itself  there  was  little  out 
of  the  ordinary.  What  the  ballad-readers  wanted  was  the  last 
speech  of  the  criminal.  Such  farewell  words  are  preserved  in 
various  examples  of  the  ballad  type  I  am  discussing. 

For  instance,  let  us  take  several  ballads  on  the  hanging  of 

iFor  example,  note  the  dying  speech  of  William  Hunter  (Foxe's  Act* 
and  Monuments,  ed.  Pratt,  London,  1870,  VI,  728-8) ;  of  Stephen  Knight 
(ibid.,  VI,  740);  of  Master  Bradfield  (ibid.,  VII,  195);  of  John  Bland 
(ibid.,  VII,  305-6);  of  Lord  Cornwell  (ibid..  V,  402-3);  of  Anne  Boleyn 
(ibid.,  V,  135);  of  Lady  Grey  (ibid.,  VI,  424);  of  Dr.  Barnes  (ibid., 
V,  435-6). 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          117 

Mrs.  Anne  Page  of  Plymouth  and  her  lover,  George  Strang- 
widge.  They  together  murdered  Mrs.  Page's  husband,  and  from 
Henslowe's  diary  we  learn  that  Jonson  and  Dekker  wrote  a 
play  on  the  subject,  now  unhappily  lost.2  In  one  of  the  bal- 
lads preserved  to  us,  "The  Sorrowful  Complaint  of  Mrs.  Page/' 
she  says: 

"If  ever  woe  did  touch  a  woman's  heart, 
Or  griefe  did  gall  for  sinne  the  inward  part, 
My  conscience  then  and  heavy  heart  within 
Can  witnesse  well  my  sorrow  for  my  sinne.     .     .     . 

4 '  My  watry  eyes,  unto  the  heavens  I  bend, 
Craving  of  Christ  his  mercy  to  extend. 
My  bloody  deed,  0  Lord !  doe  me  forgive, 
And  let  my  soule  within  thy  Kingdome  live. 

"Farewell!   false  World,  and  friends  that  fickle  be; 
All  wives,  farewell !  example  take  by  me ; 
Let  not  the  Devill  to  murder  you  entice, 
Seeke  to  escape  each  f oule  and  filthy  vice. '  '3 

A  rival  balladist  gives  another  version  of  the  same  speech  under 
the  title,  "Lamentation  of  Master  Page's  Wife."  Some  of  the 
verses  follow: 

"My  loathed  life  too  late  I  doe  lament; 
My  hateful  deed  with  heart  I  doe  repent ; 
A  wife  I  was  that  wilfull  went  awry, 
And  for  that  fault  am  here  prepar'd  to  die.     .     .     » 

"Though  wealthy  Page  possest  my  outward  part, 
George  Strangwidge  still  was  lodged  in  my  heart.     .     .     . 

"Mle  thinkes  that  heaven  cries  vengeance  for  my  fact; 
Me  thinkes  the  world  condemns  my  monstrous  act; 
Me  thinkes  within,  my  conscience  tells  me  true, 
That  for  that  deed  Hell  fier  is  my  due.     .     .     . 

20Op.  cit.,  ed.  Greg,  London,  1900,  Pt.  II,  p.  205. 
8Ballad  Society,  Roxburghe  Ballads,  I,  561,  f. 


118  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 


. . 


Well  could  I  wish  that  Pagje  enjoy  M  his  life, 

So  that  he  had  some  other  to  his  wife ; 

But  never  could  I  wish,  of  low  or  hie 

A  longer  life  and  see  sweet  Strangwidge  die.     .     .     . 

"And  thou,  my  deare,  which  for  my  fault  must  dye, 
Be  not  afraid  the  sting  of  death  to  try; 
Like  as  we  liv'd  and  lov'd  together  true, 
So  both  at  once  we'le  bid  the  world  adue. 

"Ulalia,  thy  friend,  doth  take  her  last  farewell, 
Whose  soule  with  thine  in  heaven  shall  ever  dwell, 
Sweet  Saviour  Christ !  doe  thou  my  soule  receive : 
The  world  I  doe  with  all  my  hart  forgive."4 

The  accomplice's  words  are  given  in  "The  Lamentation  of 
George  Strangwidge, ' '  part  of  which  runs : 

"The  deed  late  done  in  heart  I  doe  lament; 
But  that  I  lov'd,  I  cannot  it  repent.     .     .     . 

' '  Wretch  that  I  am,  that  I  consent  did  give ! 
Had  I  denied,  Ulalia  still  should  live: 

' '  Blind  fancy  said,  this  sute  do  not  denie ; 
Live  thou  in  blisse,  or  else  in  sorrow  die. 
0  Lord!  forgive  this  cruell  deed  of  mine; 
Upon  my  soule  let  beams  of  mercy  shine. '  '5 

It  is  notable  in  all  these  lamentations  that  the  criminal  is 
made  to  declare  the  justice  of  his  punishment  and  his  forgive- 
ness of  those  responsible  for  his  death.  At  the  same  time  he 
speaks  his  confidence  that  Heaven  has  forgiven  his  sin,  and  he 
is  assured  of  eternal  bliss.  These  two  thoughts  are  expressed 
again  in  one  stanza  of  "The  Lamentation  of  Bruton  and  Riley," 
dated  1633: 

*Roxburghe  Ballads,  I,  555-556. 
*IMd.,  I,  559-560. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          119 

"Thy  mercy,  Lord!  is  greather  than  our  sinne, 
And  if  thou  please  in  heaven  to  let  us  in, 
We  doe  repent  us  of  our  wicked  deed, 
The  thought  of  which  doth  make  our  soules  to  bleed.  '  '8 

Even  more  assured  is  the  criminal  in  '  '  The  Lamentation  of  John 
Stevens,"  1632: 

"Vaine  world,  farewell!  I  am  prepar'd  to  die; 
Mjy  soule,  I  hope,  shall  straight  ascend  the  skie  : 
I  come,  Lord  Jesus  !  now  I  come  to  thee  ; 
To  thee,  one  God,  yet  holy  Trinitie."7 

So  the  refrain  to  "Luke  Button's  Lamentation"  (1595)  : 

"Lord  Jesus,  forgive  me,  with  mercy  relieve  me; 
Receive,  0  sweet  Saviour,  my  Spirit  unto  thee. 

But  while  acknowledging  his  guilt  of  the  crime  charged,  the 
dying  man  frequently  mentions  some  other  sin  of  which  he 
might  have  been  guilty  but  was  not.  Thus  Luke  Hutton  in 
the  ballad  just  quoted: 

"Yet  did  I  never  kill  man  nor  wife, 
Though  lewdly  long  I  led  my  life, 
But  all  too  bad  my  deeds  have  been, 
Offending  my  Country,  and  my  good  Queen.  '  '8 

The  best  example  of  this  quality  I  have  met  is  connected  with 
the  hanging  of  a  certain  notorious  horse-thief.  The  "Lamentable 
New  Ditty  on  Stoole"  runs: 

'  '  I  never  stole  no  Oxe  nor  Cow,  nor  never  murdered  any  ; 
But  fifty  Horse  I  did  receive  of  a  Merchants  man  of  Gory."1(* 


.,  Ill,  145. 

.,  Ill,  159. 
*Il>id.,  VIII,  56. 
•Ibid.,  I,  580. 

.,  VIII,  631. 


120  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

The  explanation  of  this  turn  in  so  many  broadsides  is  simple 
enough.  The  balladist,  wishing  to>  retain  the  sympathy  of  his 
audience  for  the  condemned  man,  endeavors  to  show  that  the 
latter  might  have  been  more  wicked  than  he  really  was.  But 
still  he,  as  a  conserver  of  public  morals,  must  justify  the  hanging 
and  make  it  clear  that  the  prisoner  was  rightly  condemned.  The 
moral  lesson  is  frequently  emphasized  by  special  appeals  of 
warning  to  those  present.  Thus  a  late  ballad,  "The  Berkshire 
Tragedy,"  about  1700: 

"Young  Men,  take  warning  by  my  fall:  all  filthy  lust  defy. 
By  giving  way  to  wickedness,  alas  !  this  day  I  die.  '  ' 

"The  Lamentation  of  John  Stevens,"  already  quoted  : 

"And  children  all,  doe  you  example  take; 
Oh,  let  me  be  a  warning  for  your  sake!"11 

"The  Downfall  of  William  Griswold"  (c.  1650),  tells  us: 

"Now,  young  men,  take  warning,  you  see  my  fault  is  great, 
0  call  to  God  for  mercy,  God's  grace  do  you  intreat."12 

Finally,  "The  Lamentation  of  Master  Page's"  Wife"  already 
quoted  : 

"You  De'nshire  Dames  and  courteous  Cornwall  Knights, 
That  here  are  come  to  visit  wofull  wights, 
Regard  my  griefe,  and  marke  my  wofull  end, 
And  to  your  children  be  a  better  friend."13 

Enough  has  been  quoted,  I  think,  to  indicate  the  general  na- 
ture of  these  ballads,  and  of  their  moral  and  religious  teaching. 
Whether  or  not  they  contain  the  real  sentiments  of  the  supposed 
speakers,  they  undoubtedly  reflect  the  mood  of  their  writers  and 
of  the  people  by  whom  they  were  purchased  and  sung.  Now  a 
few  items  more  to  show  the  extent  of  their  vogue.  The  Sta- 
tioners' Register  notes  the  entry  on  June  15,  1579,  of  a  ballad  on 


.,  ill,  158. 
.,  VIII,  71. 
is/bid.,  I,  557. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          121 

one  Halfpenny  executed  for  felony;  on  July  4,  1581,  "a  ballad 
of  Tyborne  tyding  of  Watt*foole  and  his  felloes,  of  the  lamenta- 
ble end  they  made  at  the  galloes";  on  August  19,  1584,  "a  bal- 
lade of  Clinton's  lamentation,"  Clinton  having  been  executed 
shortly  before;  on  July  19,  1584,  a  ballad  "of  the  traditor, 
Frauncis  Throckmorton, "  executed  at  Tyburn,  July  10;  on  July 
10,  1592,  ballads  on  the  Bruen  hanging,  June  28;  on  December 
5,  1592,  a  ballad  on  C.  Tomlinson,  hanged  December  4 ;  on  Jan- 
uary 27,  1594,  a  ballad  on  Sturman,  hanged  January  24 ;  on  Feb- 
ruary 23,  1594,  a  ballad  on  Randall,  hanged  February  21 ;  on 
December  6,  1594,  a  ballad  on  Banes,  hanged  that  day.14  For 
the  Elizabethan  period  the  list  could  be  extended  almost  indefi- 
nitely. But  on  through  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
into  Restoration  times,  till  1700  they  continue.  John  Ashton  in 
Modern  Street  Ballads15  gives  two  texts  belonging  to  the  nine- 
teenth century  of  somewhat  similar  moral,  though  not  distinctly 
pious,  exhortations.  One  is  entitled,  * '  Life  of  the  Mannings,  Ex- 
ecuted at  Horsemonger  Lane  Gaol,  Tuesday,  November  13,  1849," 
and  the  other,  "Life  and  Trial  of  Palmer,"  who  was  executed 
June  14,  1856. 

Indeed  Mr.  John  A.  Lomax  has  in  manuscript  an  American 
ballad,  sent  to  him  by  Mr.  D.  W.  Gray  of  Hale,  North  Carolina, 
referring  to  the  actual  hanging  of  a  woman,  Frances  Silvers,  for 
the  murder  of  her  husband.  She  was  executed  in  Morganton, 
N.  C.,  on  July  12,  1833.  This  ballad  runs : 

"This  dreadful,  dark  and  dreary  day. 
Has  swept  my  glories  all  away, 
My  sun  goes  down,  my  days  are  past 
And  I  must  leave  this  world  at  last. 

"My  Lord!  what  will  become  of  me, 
I  am  condemned  you  all  may  see, 
To  heaven  or  hell  my  soul  must  fly 
All  in  a  moment  I  must  die. 

"See  Arber's  Transcript  of  the  Stationers'  Registers,  vols.  I  and  II  at 
the  corresponding  dates. 
"Op.  Git.,  pp.  386,  ff. 


122  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

"  Judge  Daniel  had  my  sentence  passed, 
These  prison  walls  I  leave  at  last, 
Nothing  to  cheer  my  drooping  head 
Until  I  am  numbered  with  the  dead, 

"But  Oh,  that  dreadful  Judge  I  fear 
Shall  I  that  awful  sentence  hear, 
Depart  you  cursed  down  to  hell 
And  forever  there  to  dwell. 

"I  know  that  frightful  ghosts  I'll  see 
Gnawing  their  flesh  in  misery, 
And  then  and  there  attended  be 
For  murder  in  the  first  degree. 

"There  shall  I  meet  that  mournful  face 
Whose  blood  I  spitted  upon  this  place, 
With  flaming  eyes  to  me  he'll  say, 
'Why  did  you  take  my  life  away?' 

A 

"His  feeble  hands  fell  gently  down 
His  chattering  tongue  soon  lost  its  sound. 
To  see  his  soul  and  body  part 
It  strikes  with  terror  to  my  heart. 

"I  took  his  blooming  days  away 
Left  him  no  time  to  God  to  pray, 
And  if  sins  fall  on  his  head 
Must  I  not  bear  them  in  his  stead. 

"The   jealous   thought  that  first  gave  strife 
To  make  me  take  my  husband's  life 
For  days  and  months  I  spent  my  time 
Thinking  how  to  commit  this  crime. 

"And  on  a  dark  and  doleful  night 
I  put  his  body  out  of  sight 
With  flames  I  tried  him  to  consume 
But  time  it  would  not  allow  it  done. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          123 

* '  You  all  see  me  and  on  me  gaze 
Be  careful  how  you  spend  your  days 
And  never  commit  this  awful  crime 
But  try  to  serve  your  God  in  time. 

.    "jMjymind  on  solemn  subjects  roll 
My  little  child,  God  bless  its  soul 
All  you  that  are  of  Adam's  race 
Let  not  my  faults  this  child  disgrace. 

N 

"Farewell,  good  people,  you  all  now  see 
What  my  mad  conduct  brought  on  me 
To  die  of  shame  and  disgrace 
Before  the  world  of  human  face. 

"Awful,  indeed,  to  think  of  death, 
In  perfect  health  to  lose  my  breath, 
Farewell,  my  friends,  I  bid  adieu, 
Vengeance  on  me  must  now  persue. 

' '  Great  God,  now  shall  I  be  -forgiven, 
Not  fit  for  earth,  not  fit  for  heaven, 
But  little  time  to  pray  to  God 
For  now  I  take  that  awful  road. '  '16 

Such  a  firmly  established  and  popular  literary  form  must  in- 
fluence some  more  dignified  literary  types.  It  is  not,  therefore, 
surprising  to  find  echoes  of  these  broadsides  in  the  Elizabethan 
drama.  Three  examples  of  such  an  influence  will  suffice  to  make 
the  truth  clear. 

The  most  realistic  Elizabethan  play  I  know  is  the  Two  Lamen- 
table Tragedies  of  Robert  Yarington,  published  in  1601,  but  based 

"Manuscript  note:  "These  lines  written  by  Frances  Silvers,  who 
was  hanged  in  Morganton,  N.  C.,  on  the  12th  day  of  July',  1833,  for  the 
murder  of  her  husband.  The  woman  was  in  a  few  hundred  yards  of 
Bluemon,  Buncombe  Co.,  when  she  was  caught.  She  was  a  very  small 
woman,  though  she  was  dressed  in  men's  clothes,  her  hair  cut  off,  and 
driving  a  wagon.  Mr.  Gray  adds  that  he  has  sung  the  song  for 
sixty  years." 


124  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

•on  several  murders  and  executions,  two  of  which  crimes  and 
their  consequent  hangings  actually  occurred  in  London  during 
August  and  September,  1594.  Now  just  before  Thomas  Merry 
and  his  sister  Rachel  in  the  final  act  of  this  gruesome  play,  are 
actually  "turned  off"  (I  quote  the  stage  direction  for  euphe- 
mistic purposes),  each  makes  a  long  speech  in  the  exact  tone  of, 
these  ballads.  They  acknowledge  their  guilt,  though  Thomas 
adds,  "I  could  say  something  of  my  innocence  of  fornication  an] 
adultery, ' '  warn  the  spectators  against  following  their  examples, 
beg  forgiveness,  and  declare  their  assurance  of  supping  with 
Jesus  Christ. 

In  Peele  's  Edward  7,  the  Lady  Mayoress  of  London,  poisoned 
by  Queen  Eleanor,  makes  a  dying  speech,  the  text  of  which  is 
probably  corrupt,  but  the  wording  is  similar  to  these  ballads : 

* '  Farewell  proud  Queen  the  Autor  of  my  death, 
The  scourge  of  England  and  to  English  dames : 
Ah  husband  sweete  John  Bearmber  Miaior  of  London, 
Ah  didst  thou  know  how  Mary  is  perplext, 
Soone  wouldst  thou  come  to  Wales  and  rid  me  of  this  paine. 
But  oh  I  die,  my  wishe  is  al  in  vaine."17 

Finally,  in  the  pre-Shakespearean  Leir  play,  the  old  king 
thinks  himself  about  to  be  murdered,  and  declares: 

"Ah,  my  true  friend  in  all  extremity, 
Let  vs  submit  vs  to  the  will  of  God ; 
Things  past  all  sence,  let  vs  not  seeke  to  know ; 
It  is  Gods  will,  and  therefore  must  be  so. 
My  friend,  I  am  prepared  for  the  stroke : 
Strike  when  thou  wilt,  and  I  forgiue  thee  here, 
Euen  from  the  very  bottome  of  my  heart. '  '18 

"Farewell,  Perillus,  euen  the  truest  friend, 
That  euer  liued  in  adversity. '  '19 

.  cit.  (Malone  Society  Reprints),  11.  2340-2345. 
.,  11.   1655-1661. 
.,  11.  1663-1664. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  .         125 

"Now,  Lord,  receyue  me  for  I  come  to  thee, 
And  dye,  I  hope,  in  per  fit  charity. 
Dispatch,  I  pray  thee,  I  have  liued  too  long.  '  '20 

Leir,  we  may  be  sure,  is  here  uttering  his  dying  lament  and 
looks  upon  the  hired  murderer  as  his  executioner. 

Though  of  course  certain  conventional  thoughts  will  occur  to 
almost  all  men  facing  a  violent  death,  and  though  these  ballads 
in  many  cases  merely  give  expression  to  the  conventional  ideas 
occurring  or  supposed  to  occur  to  the  dying  criminal;  yet,  as  I 
have  tried  to  make  clear,  realities  of  experience  will  not  account 
for  their  close  kinship  in  phrase,  or  for  all  the  parallels  in 
thought-structure.  In  their  borrowings  from  each  other,  and 
their  incremental  repetition,  they  approach  very  near  their  first 
cousins  of  the  genuine  folk-poetry. 

For  their  literaiy  value  these  broadsides  of  course  demand  no 
consideration  at  all.  But  for  the  light  they  shed  on  the  social 
history  of  the  time,  for  their  relations  to  other  literary  forms, 
for  their  disclosure  of  what  some  would  call  "folk-psychology," 
I  believe  they  are  worthy  of  passing  notice.  Particularly  in  the 
case  of  us  who  feel  called  on  so  frequently  to  apologize  for  the 
silliness,  the  tawdriness,  the  crudeness  of  cowboy  or  negro  bal- 
lads which  we  have  collected,  and  which  down  in  our  hearts  we 
really  enjoy,  these  cheap,  old  dying  laments  rescued  and  re- 
printed by  reputable  scholars  across  the  seas  bring  comfort,  for 
they  make  us  feel  a  little  less  ashamed  of  what  we  are  doing  to- 
day in  the  collection  of  folk-lore. 


id.,  11.  1670-1673. 

11.  1670-1673.  A  similar  note  is  sounded  by  the  Queen  in 
Thomas  Preston's  play  of  Cambises  (1570)  when  she  sings  just  before 
her  execution: 

"Farwell,  you  ladies  of  the  court, 

With  all  your  masking  hue 
I  doo  forsake  these  brodered  gaides 
And  all  the  fashions  new."     (ed.  Manly,  11.  1121-1132.) 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  THE  CENSOR  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 
BY  EVERT  MORDECAI  CLARK 

The  tradition  of  Shakespeare's  pre-eminence  in  poetry,  so  firm- 
ly established  even  within  the  lifetime  of  the  poet,  has  been  con- 
tinuously current  in  the  world  now  three  hundred  years.  That 
his  works  are 

such 
As  neither  man,  nor  muse,  can  praise  too  much 

was  the  general  verdict  of  his  contemporaries ;  it  is  today  a  judg- 
ment of  universal  acceptation.  But  to  follow  the  thread  of  this 
tradition  through  the  past  three  centuries  is  not  the  present  task. 
Suffice  it  here  to  recall  that  Jonson's  song  of  praise  was  sus- 
tained and  amplified  by  Milton ;  that  it  was  one  of  the  insistent 
notes  of  reviving  romanticism ;  that  not  even  the  heroic  numbers 
of  the  Augustan  regime  prevailed  against  it.  My  general  aim  is 
merely  to  emphasize  this  last  suggestion,  that  even  in  the  heyday 
of  English  classicism,  Shakespeare  was  sincerely  cherished,  by 
some  at  least,  as  the  supreme  poet  of  the  world. 

We  have  just  been  witnessing  the  unprecedented  pageantry 
called  forth  by  the  tercentenary  celebration  of  Shakespeare's 
long  and  unbroken  reign.  One  hundred  years  ago  there  were 
also  elaborate  celebrations,  notably  at  Stratford,  which  indicated 
no  slight  degree  of  popular  appreciation,  not  to  speak  of  the 
more  significant  enthusiasm  of  Coleridge  and  Hazlitt.  But  I 
have  found  no  trace  of  Shakespeare  jubilees  for  1716,  or  any 
similar  evidence  of  popular  interest  in  the  fact  that  Shakespeare 's 
works  had  been  abroad  in  the  world  one  hundred  years.  I  do  not 
mean  that  the  poet  had  been  forgotten.  Rowe's  editions  of  1709 
and  1714  are  proof  that  he  was  being  read.  Nor  were  his 
plays  by  any  means  driven  from  the  stage.  There  were,  in  fact, 
no  fewer  than  sixteen  Shakespearean  performances  at  the  Lon- 
don play-houses  during  the  centennial  year  alone.  But  these 
plays  as  a  rule  appeared  in  strangely  distorted  adaptations,  and 
even  so  did  not  largely  attract  the  crowd  from  its  feastings  upon 
personal  satire,  pantomime,  and  puppet-show.  How  discerniiig- 

[126] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          127 

ly  Shakespeare  was  being  read  outside  the  play-houses  is  not  be- 
yond our  conjecture  when  we  hear  Pope  pronouncing  anti-Eliz- 
abethan Rymer  "one  of  the  best  critics  we  ever  had."1  The 
praise  from  Addison  was  scant  and  qualified,  and  belied  by  his 
own  dramatic  practice.  It  was  an  age  of  reason,  rule,  conform- 
ity ;  and  critics  great  and  small,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  dealt 
with  Shakespeare  mainly  to  show  how  far  he  fell  below  prevail- 
ing standards  of  poetic  art.  With  strange  inconsistency  they 
still  repeated  the  tradition  of  his  sovereignty,  while  in  their 
hearts  they  acknowledged  allegiance  to  Aristotle  and  Horace  and 
the  descendants  of  these  worthies  among  the  moderns.  Of  the 
best  and  most  characteristic  qualities  of  Shakespeare  ihe  poet, 
England  had  no  intelligent  conception  or  genuine  appreciation 
in  1716. 

But  Shakespeare's  reputation  as  the  prince  of  poets  has  never 
lacked  sincere  defenders.  And  even  in  1716,  certainly  the  dark- 
est centenary  year  of  all,  there  was  one  at  least  who  dared  to 
proclaim  for  the  poetry  of  the  great  Elizabethan  unfeigned  and 
unbounded  admiration,  and  who  busied  himself  umveariedly 
with  enduring  service.  It  was  Lewis  Theobald, — a  man  whom  I 
venture  to  call  Shakespeare's  best  friend  one  hundred  years 
after  the  poet's  death. 

For  the  service  which  he  was  destined  to  render  to  Shake- 
speare, Theobald's  early  training  and  natural  endowments  fur- 
nished the  best  possible  preparation  and  equipment.  As  a  boy 
he  received  an  excellent  education ;  so  well,  indeed,  was  thia 
foundation  laid  that  not  even  the  most  learned  of  his  contem- 
poraries ever  seriously  questioned  the  scope  or  soundness  of  his 
classical  attainments.  Moreover,  in  these  youthful  literary  en- 
thusiasms the  best  of  the  older  English  writers  seem  to  have  vied 
with  the  best  of  the  ancients.  "For  my  own  Part,"  said  he  as 
early  as  1715,  "the  Shelves  of  my  Study  are  filled  with  curious 
Volumes  in  all  sorts  of  Literature,  that  preserve  the  Fragments  of 
great  and  venerable  Authors.  These  I  consider  as  so  many 
precious  Collections  from  a  Shipwreck  of  inestimable  Value."2 

'Nettleton,  Eng.  Drama  of  the  Restoration  and  Eighteenth  Century, 
p.  89. 

^Censor,  No.  5. 


128  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

There  could  be  no  better  proof  of  Theobald's  antiquarian  zeal 
in  exploring  neglected  fields  of  English  literature  than  his  re- 
markable collection  of  two  hundred  and  fifty-nine  old  plays.  Tt 
was  rummaging  among  these  and  some  five  hundred  other  early 
English  plays  that  gave  him  the  orientation  in  Shakespeare  and 
the  Elizabethan  drama  which  Pope  so  conspicuously  lacked.  To 
wide  reading  in  the  drama  Theobald  early  added  the  practical 
experience  of  a  playwright.  But,  what  was  even  more  important 
than  wide  reading  and  a  knowledge  of  the  stage,  Theobald  pos- 
sessed certain  native  elements  that  fitted  him  uniquely  for  his 
task.  His  mind  was  capable  of  clear  thinking  and  of  indefatiga- 
ble attention  to  detail.  His  heart  was  filled  with  a  love  of  things 
Elizabethan,  of  Shakespeare  above  all:  "No  Labour  of  Mine," 
he  assures  us,  "can  be  equivalent  to  the  dear  and  ardent  Love  I 
bear  for  Shakespear.  "3  Furthermore,  he  was  himself,  in  some 
degree,  a  poet;  at  least,  in  his  heart  was  the  poet's  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  in  nature  and  in  human  life.  And  we  are  told  by  Mr. 
Stede,  of  Covent  Garden,  who  knew  him  intimately  for  thirty 
years,  that  "he  was  of  a  generous  spirit,  too  generous  for  his 
circumstances " ;  and  that  ' '  none  knew  how  to  do  a  handsome 
thing  or  confer  a  benefit  when  in  his  power  with  a  better  grace 
than  himself."*  Thus  by  nature  and  by  training  was  he 
equipped  to  understand  the  most  magnanimous  of  poets,  and 
to  discern  in  his  "works  even  that  which  was  hidden  from  the 
wisest  of  the  age. 

It  would  be  unnecessary,  even  were  it  not  here  beside  the  mark, 
to  dwell  upon  Theobald's  major  achievements  in  Shakespearean 
criticism;  although  one  finds  it  difficult  to  pass  by  Shakespear 
Restored,  "the  first  essay  of  literal  criticism  upon  any  author  in 
the  English  tongue,"5  especially  as  it  contributed  the  immortal 
guess  * '  and  a '  babbled  of  green  Fields, ' '  together  with  some  three 
hundred  other  emendations  that  have  met  with  universal  favor. 
But  Churton  Collins,  Professor  Lounsbury,  and  others  have  al- 
ready reckoned  up  this  obligation  and  bestowed  the  meed  of 
praise.  Now  we  know,  what  was  not  known  for  a  hundred  and 

*W<orks  of  Shakespeare,  Preface. 

4Nicholls,  Illustrations  of  Lit.  Hist,  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  2,  745. 

BLounsbury,  The  Text  of  Shakespeare,  p.  160. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          129 

fifty  years  after  Theobald's  death,  that  in  the  province  of 
Shakespearean  scholarship  he  stood  head  and  shoulders  above 
Kowe  and  Pope  and  Warburton ;  that  to  him  belongs  the  endur- 
ing distinction  of  being  our  greatest  poet's  first  great  editor. 
But  I  invite  attention  to  the  earlier  and  less  heralded  service 
which  Theobald,  self-styled  ' '  Censor  of  Great  Britain, ' '  rendered 
to  Shakespeare  in  a  series  of  critical  essays  during  the  period 
April  11,  1715  to  June  1,  1717. 

Theobald 's  periodical,  The  Censor,  i '  followed . .  .  close  upon 
the  Heels  of  the  inimitable  Spectator,"  and,  in  general,  was 
patterned  after  it.  The  Censor  himself  purported  to  be  "lineally 
descended  from  Benjamin  Johnson  of  surly  Memory."  He  there- 
fore declared  himself  the  sworn  foe  of  "Nonsense,  bad  Poets, 
illiterate  Fops,  affected  Coxcombs,  and  all  the  Spawn  of  Follies 
and  Impertinence,  that  make  up  and  incumber  the  present  Gen- 
eration." "The  Beau  Monde,"  he  continues,  "in  all  its  Views 
and  Varieties,  I  seize  on  as  my  proper  Province  to  exercise  my 
Authority  in;  not  without  a  particular  Regard  to  the  British 
Stage,  of  which  by  right  of  Ancestry  I  claim  the  Protection."*' 
The  paper  appeared  on  Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday,  ancfc 
ran  for  ninety-six  numbers.  Its  range  of  topics  was  fairly  wide;, 
some  of  the  non-dramatic  subjects  being  wine  and  wit,  religion, 
scholarship,  popular  superstitions,  female  dress,  the  laureate- 
ship,  prose  style,  antiquities,  coffee-house  types,  forced  mar- 
riages, Wyatt  and  Surrey's  poems.  But,  true  to  promise,  the 
Censor  gave  the  lion 's  share  of  space  to  the  British  stage. 

So  far  as  I  am  aware,  the  dramatic  criticism  appearing  in 
The  Censor  has  never  been  reprinted.  Yet  very  few  of  these 
papers  are  without  interesting  allusions  to  Elizabethan  drama- 
tists, nearly  .a  score  are  given  over  to  dramatic  criticism,  and 
no  fewer  than  ten  are  devoted,  wholly  or  in  part,  to  the  criti- 
cism of  Shakespeare.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  reproduce  the  body 
of  this  criticism  here.  But  upon  that  portion  of  the  comment 
which  has  to  do  with  Shakespeare  I  shall  make  a  number  of 
observations,  and  support  them  with  brief  but  representative 
quotations. 

«Censor,  No.  1. 


130  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

One  approaches  thi,s  early  eighteenth-century  criticism  of 
Shakespeare  expecting  to  find  the  earmarks  of  the  time,  and 
does  indeed  find  some  insistence  upon  the  moral  of  a  play  and 
at  least  one  expression  of  preference  for  poetic  justice;  but  he 
is  much  less  impressed  with  its  conventionalisms  than  with  the 
differences  between  it  and  the  Shakespearean  comment  of  Theo- 
bald's contemporaries.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  more  liberal  than 
theirs  in  aim  and  method,  more  temperate  and  just  in  tone.  A 
critic,  in  Theobald's  opinion,  should  be  something  more  than 
a  pedant  acquainted  with  classical  rules.  He  should  be  a  man 
of  sound  judgment,  of  candor,  moderation,  and  humanity.  "I 
shall  look  with  a  severe  Eye  on  the  Labours  of  my  Contempor- 
aries," announced  the  Censor  with  gruff  humor.  "Folly  shall 
no  more  be  baul'd  in  our  Streets,  nor  Sense  and  Nonsense  sold 
currently  at  the  same  Price,  if  the  Spirit  of  Ben.  Johnson 
can  work  any  reformation."  But  with  characteristic  tolerance 
he  added:  "However,  I  shall  not  allow  my  Spleen  to  get  the 
better  of  my  Humanity,  but  qualify  my  Corrections  with  good 
Humour  and  Moderation.  "7  Moreover,  the  true  critic  should 
be  as  far  removed  from  the  hireling  hypocrite  as  from  the  bump- 
tious and  intolerant  pedant.  But  the  liberality  and  justice  of 
Theobald  as  a  critic  are  particularly  apparent  in  his  criticism  of 
Shakespeare.  Here  there  is  no  yielding  to  the  tyranny  of  dra- 
matic rules;  indeed,  Theobald  boldly  declared  that  Shakespeare 
is  not  to  be  judged  by  time-honored  rules:  "A  Genius  like 
Shakespear's  should  not  be  judg'd  by  the  Laws  of  Aristotle, 
and  the  other  Prescribers  to  the  Stage;  it  will  be  sufficient  to 
fix  a  Character  of  Excellence  to  his  Performances,  if  there  are 
in  them  a  Number  of  beautiful  Incidents,  true  and  exquisite 
Turns  of  Nature  and  Passion,  fine  and  delicate  Sentiments,  un- 
common Images,  and  great  Boldnesses  of  Expression."5 

Holding  such  conceptions  of  true  criticism  and  true  critics, 
.and  believing  with  Shakespeare  that  tragedy  and  comedy  are 
'"Two  Opposite  Glasses,  in  which  Mankind  may  see  the  true 
Pigures  they  make  in  every  important  or  trifling  Circumstance 

^Censor,  No.  1. 
*IUd.t  No.  70. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          131 

of  Life,"9  Theobald  considered  Restoration  and  contemporary 
drama  very  poor  indeed.  His  allusions  to  the  plays  of  the  last 
two  generations  are,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  nature  of  strictures 
upon  their  immorality  or  absurdities  in  plot  and  characteri- 
zation. For  the  drama  of  his  own  day,  if  we  except  one  polite 
allusion  to  Cato,  he  felt  and  expressed  nothing  less  than  dis- 
gust: "To  look  on  some  of  the  Motley  Performances  of  these 
Mistaken  Poets,  one  would  imagine  that  Tragedy,  in  their  Def- 
inition, were  but  a  Rhapsody  of  Dialogues;  that  the  Passions 
would  be  sufficiently  refin'd,  if  they  can  contrive  in  one  Place 
for  a  Perriwig-pated  Fellow,  as  Shakespear  has  express 'd  it, 
to  rant  till  he  splits  the  Ears  of  the  Groundlings."10  He  com- 
plains that  comedy  has  degenerated  into  personal  satire,  and 
"hopes  that  Apprehension  of  personal  Inflictions  will  in  time 
extirpate  the  Generation  *  of  Libelling  Wits."11  It  strikes  him 
"with  a  very  dee-p  Concern  to  find  that  Scene  where  Shake- 
spear,  and  the  Immortal  Ben,  had  gained  eternal  Glory,  dwin- 
dled into  Entertainments  of  Show  and  Farce  unbecoming  the 
Genius  of  a  Brave,  Gallant,  and  Wise  Nation."12 

As  a  kind  of  panacea  for  all  these  dramatic  ills  Theobald 
steadfastly  held  up  Shakespeare  and  promoted,  through  the  me- 
dium of  The  Censor,  the  production  of  his  greater  plays.  Thus, 
for  example,  he  followed  up  an  extended  critical  discussion  of 
Julius  Caesar  with  the  announcement  and  admonition:  "This 
excellent  Play  is  to  be  acted  on  Thursday  next  for  the  Benefit  of 
Mir.  Leveridge ;  as  he  has  shown  his  good  Sense  by  his  Choice,  I 
shall  think  but  meanly  of  the  Taste  of  the  Town,  if  Shakespear 
is  not  honour.'d  with  their  Company,  and  he  rewarded  by  a  full 
Audience."13 

I  have  already  pointed  out  that  Theobald  was  exceptionally 
well  prepared,  by  temperament  and  by  training,  to  be  the 
champion  of  this  worthy  cause.  But  in  the  Censor  papers  we 
have  something  more  than  a  priori  evidence :  it  is  apparent  that 

^Censor,  No.  7. 

No.  63. 

No.  39. 

No.  31. 
13IUd.,  No.  70. 


132  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Theobald  really  knew  Shakespeare  as  no  one  else  in  England 
knew  him  in  1716.  He  knew  Shakespeare  the  man.  Observe  the 
truthfulness  of  the  impression  conveyed  by  this  sketch  of  the 
poet  as  he  appeared  a't  an  imaginary  election  of  laureate: 
"Shakespear,  with  a  negligent  Air,  and  Boldness  of  Spirit,  fol- 
low'd  him  [Jonson],  with  a  vast  Company  of  Minor.  Poets  at 
his  Heels,  who  pick'd  his  Pockets  all  the  way  he  walk'd,  with 
a  low  thankful  Bow,  and  poll'd  for  Mr.  Dryden."14  His  famil- 
iarity with  Shakespeare's  works  is  apparent  in  even  the  non- 
dramatic  papers  of  The  Censor  in  the  frequency  and  the  felicity 
of  his  quotations  and  allusions.  "The  cold  Reception  which  a 
poor  Scholar  meets  with,"  says  the  Censor,  "and  the  Con- 
tempt which  patient  Merit  of  the  Unworthy  takes,  as  Shake- 
spear  finely  observes,  has  made  Learning  an  Object  of  our 
Fears."15  "This  fantastical  Narration,"  says  he  again,  "put 
me  in  Mind  of  Hamlet's  Disquisition  with  Horatio,  about  Alex- 
ander's Dust  stopping  a  Beer-barrel."16  In  fact,  he  "cannot 
avoid  falling  upon  those  fine  Passages  of  Shakespear,  .  .  .  who 
as  he  drew  always  from  Nature,  gives  ...  so  much  the  better 
Testimony."17  That  he  was  able,  a  little  later,  to  "restore"  the 
text  of  the  plays  from  "the  many  Errors,  as  well  Committed,  as 
Uhamended,  by  Mr.  Pope"18  is  final  proof  of  Theobald's  ex- 
traordinary familiarity  with  Shakespeare. 

Moreover,  it  is  apparent  in  the  Censor  criticism  that  he  was 
responsive  to  the  beauty  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  to  a  degree 
quite  unusual  in  his  day.  I  do  not  find  any  other  commenta- 
tor of  that  time  confessing  to  such  sincere,  warm-hearted  im- 
pressions as  the  following:  "My  Purpose  at  present  is  the 
Examination  of  a  Tragedy  of  Shakespear's,  which,  with  all 
its  Defects  and  Irregularities,  has  still  touch  'd  me  with  the 
strongest  Compassion,  as  well  in  my  Study,  as  on  the  Stage.18 
.  .  .  Never  was  a  Description  wrought  up  with  a  more  Masterly 


No.  41. 

No.  48. 
No.  18. 
No.  84. 
^Shakespear  Restored,  Title-page. 

i»Censor,  No.  7. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          133 

Hand,  than  the  Poet  has  here  done  on  the  Inclemency  of  the 
Season;  nor  could  Pity  be  well  mov'd  from  a  better  Incident, 
than  by  introducing  a  poor  injur'd  old  Monarch,  bare-headed 
in  the  midst  of  the  Tempest,  and  tortur'd  even  to  Distraction 
with  his  Daughter's  Ingratitude.  How  exquisitely  fine  are  his 
Expostulations  with  the  Heavens,  that  seem  to  take  part 
against  him  with  his  Children,  and  how  artful,  yet  natural,  are 
his  Sentiments  on  this  Occasion  !  .  .  .  There  is  a  Grace  that  can- 
not be  conceiv'd  in  the  sudden  Starts  of  his  Passion,  on  be- 
ing controul'd.  ...  I  cannot  sufficiently  admire  his  Struggles 
with  his  Testy  Humour,  his  seeming  Desire  of  restraining  it,  and 
the  Force  with  which  it  resists  his  Endeavors,  and  flies  out  into 
Rage  and  Imprecations:  To  quote  Instances  of  half  these 
Beauties,  were  to  copy  Speeches  out  of  every  Scene.  .  .  .  The 
Charms  of  the  Sentiments,  and  Diction,  are  too  numerous  to 
come  under  the  Observation  of  a  single  Paper."20  He  was  im- 
pressed with  the  "  beautiful  Incidents,,  .  .  .  exquisite  Turns  of 
Nature,  .  .  .  and  fine  and  delicate  Sentiments"21  in  Julius 
Caesar.  Speaking  of  Dryden's  comparison  of  the  quarrel  scene 
of  this  play  with  similar  scenes  in  the  plays  of  Euripides  and 
Fletcher,  he  says  :  '  '  Mr.  Dryden  does  not  seem  to  have  fix  'd  upon 
the  true  Cause  of  the  Superior  Beauty  in  Shakespeare.  .  .  . 
Our  being  moved  depends  more  on  the  Poet's  touching  our 
Passions  nicely,  than  our  being  acquainted  with  their  Persons  as 
they  are  recorded  in  History.  It  signifies  nothing  where  a  Man 
was  born,  or  who  he  is,  the  thing  that  touches  depetids  upon 
the  Character  that  the-  Poet  gives  of  him  at  first.  ...  In  Shake- 
spear,  there  is  a  Beauty  which  is  not  in  any  of  the  Others 
from  the  Original  of  the  Quarrel,  which  is,  that  Two  Wise  Men 
commence  a  Dispute  about  a  Trifle:  And  in  the  Sequel  of  it 
a  great  many  severe  Truths,  which  they  never  intended  to  tell 
one  another,  are  naturally  introduc'd  from  the  violent  "Working 
of  their  Passions.  .  .  .  But  there  is  another  Beauty  in  Shake- 
spear's  Reconcilement,  which  is,  that  the  Cause  of  Brutus  's 
giving  way  to  his  Choler,  does  not  appear  till  after  they  are  rec- 
oncil'd,  to  which  Shakespear  gives  the  most  excellent  Turn 


No.  10. 
2i/Md.f  No.  70. 


134  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

imaginable."22  "I  never  see  the  Rage  of  the  Moor,"  he  tells 
his  readers,  "without  the  greatest  Pity.23  .  .  .  For  the  Crimes 
and  Misfortunes  of  the  Moor  are  owing  to  an  impetuous  Desire 
of  having  his  Doubts  clear  'd,  and  a  Jealousie  and  Rage,  native 
to  him,  which  he  cannot  controul,  and  which  push  him  on  to 
Revenge.  He  is  otherwise  in  his  Character  brave  and  open  ; 
generous  and  full  of  Love  for  Desdemona;  but  stung  with  the 
subtle  Suggestions  of  lago,  and  impatient  of  a  Wrong  done  to 
his  Love  and  Honour,  Passion  at  once  o'erbears  his  Reason,  and 
gives  him  up  to  Thoughts  of  bloody  Reparation:  Yet  after  he 
has  determin'd  to  murther  his  Wife,  his  Sentiments  of  her  sup- 
posed Injury,  and  his  Misfortunes  are  so  pathetic,  that  we  can- 
not but  forget  his  barbarous  Resolution,  and  pity  the  Agonies 
which  he  so  strongly  seems  to  feel."24  Everywhere  he  is  re- 
sponsive to  "the  exquisite  Justness,  as  well  as  Beauty  of  the 
Poet's  Thoughts."25 

Feeling  thus  the  power  and  beauty  of  these  great  Eliza- 
bethan plays,  Theobald  unequivocally  asserted  Shakespeare's  su- 
periority over  all  other  poets  of  the  world.  "Poets,"  he  de- 
clared, "should  look  on  Shakespear  with  a  Religious  Awe  and 
Veneration;  .  .  .  as  an  inimitable  Original  whose  Flights  are 
not  to  be  reach  'd  by  the  weak  Wings  of  his  Followers.  .  .  . 
And  indeed  there  is  not  a  greater  Difference  between  the  Flow- 
er of  our  Years,  and  the  Beginning  and  Decline  of  them,  than 
there  is  between  Shakespeare,  and  all  other  English  Poets."-6 
In  depicting  the  madness  of  King  Lear,  "Shakespear  has 
wrought  with  such  Spirit  and  so  true  a  Knowledge  of  Nature, 
that  he  has  never  yet  nor  ever  will  be  equall'd  in  it  by  any 
succeeding  Poet."27  Not  only  in  holding  the  mirror  up  to  na- 
ture was  Shakespeare  supreme  —  there  were  other  critics  who  ad- 
mitted that;  but  even  in  the  arts  of  poetic  expression  Theobald 
perceived  in  Shakespeare  a  superior  excellence.  Here  Theobald 


.,  No.  70. 
.,  NO.  16.  . 
2*JM<f.,  No.  36. 
tf.,  No.  84. 
.,  No.  73. 
No.  27. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          135 

stands  out  most  sharply  from  the  neo-classical  commentators 
upon  Shakespeare,  who  were  forever  hammering  at  Shakespeare 's 
lack  of  poetic  art.  Dry  den  finds  him  *  *  many  times  flat,  insipid ; 
his  comic  wit  degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious  swelling 
into  bombast."28  To  Rymer  Othello  was  "a  Bloody  Farce  without 
salt  or  savour";29  and  Rowe  concedes  that  Rymer  "has  certainly 
pointed  out  some  faults  very  judiciously."30  Of  the  school  of 
Rymer  is  John  Dennis,  who  "  endeavor  'd  to  show  under  what 
great  Disadvantages  Shakespear  lay,  for  want  of  the  Poetical 
Art,  and  for  want  of  being  conversant  with  the  Ancients." 
" There  are  Lines,"  says  Dennis,  "that  are  stiff  and  forc'd, 
and  harsh  and  unmusical  .  .  . ;  Lines  which  are  neither  strong 
nor  graceful.  There  are  .  .  .  Ornaments  .  .  .  which 
we  in  English  call  Fustian  or  Bombast.  There  are  Lines  which 
are  very  obscure,  .and  whole  Scenes  which  ought  to  be  alter 'd." 
Not  knowing  the  ancients,  Shakespeare  "falls  infinitely  short 
of  them  in  Art,  and  therefore  in  Nature  itself."31  Even  Addi- 
son  considers  Shakespeare  "very  faulty,"32  and  he  inveighs  par- 
ticularly against  his  "sounding  phrases,  hard  metaphors,  and 
forced  expressions."  But  Theobald  has  the  warmest  praise  for 
Shakespeare's  diction,  imagery,  and  style  in  general.  The  di- 
alogue he  finds  "incomparable."  For  the  "uncommon  Images 
and  great  Boldnesses  of  Expression"  he  has  the  liveliest  admira- 
tion. In  reply  to  the  charge  of  "Bombast  and  harshness  of 
diction,"  he  asserts  that  "where  he  is  most  harsh  and  obsolete 
he  is  still  Majestic,"  and  that  "the  Sublime  Stile,  with  a  great 
many  Defects,  is  to  be  preferred  to  the  Middle  Way  however 
exactly  hit."33  As  we  have  already  seen,  he  completely  eman- 
cipates Shakespeare  from  the  tyranny  of  rules. 

From  this  unqualified  assertion  of  Shakespeare's  two-fold  su- 
premacy it  is  an  easy  and  inviting  step  to  the  full  expansion 


**Essay  on  Dramatic  Poesy. 

29Nettleton,  Eng.  Drama  of  the  Restoration  and  Eighteenth  Century, 
p.  89. 

"Smith,  Eighteenth  Century  Essays  on  Shak.,  p.  20. 
*iJ6td.,  p.  42. 
^Spectator,  No.  39. 
No.  60. 


136  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

of  this  thought  in  Theobald's  edition  of  1733:  "In  how  many 
Points  of  Light  must  we  be  oblig'd  to  gaze  at  this  great  Poet! 
In  how  many  branches  of  Excellence  to  consider,  and  admire 
him!  Whether  we  view  him  on  the  Side  of  Art  or  Nature,  he 
ought  equally  to  engage  our  Attention:  Whether  we  respect  the 
Force  and  Greatness  of  his  Genius,  the  Extent  of  his  Knowledge 
and  Reading,  the  Power  and  Address  with  which  he  throws  out 
and  applies  either  Nature,  or  Learning,  there  is  ample  Scope 
both  for  our  Wonder  and  Pleasure.  If  his  Diction,  and  the 
Cloathing  of  his  Thoughts  attract  us,  how  much  more  must  we 
be  charm 'd  with  the  Richness,  and  Variety,  of  his  Images  and 
Ideas !  If  his  Images  and  Ideas  steal  into  our  Souls,  and  strike 
upon  our  Fancy,  how  much  are  they  improv'd  in  Price,  when 
we  come  to  reflect  with  what  Propriety  and  Justness  they  are 
apply 'd  to  Character!  If  we  look  into  his  Characters,  and 
how  they  are  furnish 'd  and  proportion 'd  to  the  Employment 
he  cuts  out  for  them,  how  we  are  taken  up  with  the  Mastery  of 
his  Portraits!  What  Draughts  of  Nature!  What  Variety  of 
Originals,  and  how  differing  each  from  the  other ! '  '34  Indeed, 
the  Censor  comment  throws  an  interesting  light  upon  the  sub- 
sequent achievements  of  Theobald  as  a  Shakespearean  critic — 
were  this  the  place  to  dwell  upon  its  biographical  significance. 
Two  facts  it  certainly  establishes:  that  the  later  and  larger 
service  to  Shakespeare  was  by  no  means  accidental ;  that  through 
Theobald's  life  ran  one  increasing  purpose — "to  befriend  the 
Memory  of  this  immortal  Poet,"  for  whose  works  he  professed 
"a  Veneration,  almost  rising  to  Idolatry."35 

The  Censor  papers  on  Shakespeare  have  also  an  historical 
significance,  as  they  are  "the  first  essays  devoted  exclusively  to 
an  examination  of  a  single  Shakespearean  play."36  Moreover, 
they  occupy  an  important  place  in  that  gradual  revival  of 
Shakespeare's  proper  reputation  which  began  to  be  percep- 
tible in  Queen  Anne's  day,  and  which  was  one  of  the  earliest 
harbingers  of  reviving  romanticism.  I  do  not  doubt  that  the 
Censor's  hearty  praise  and  advertisement  of  Shakespeare 

s*Works  of  Shah.,  Preface. 
35$7iafc.  Restored,  Introd. 

,  Eighteenth  Century  Essays  on  ShaJc.,  Introd. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shafyspeare  and  Harvey          137 

had  much  to  do  with  doubling  the  average  annual  number  of 
Shakespearean  performances  in  London  in  1716,  and  with  bring- 
ing about  a  degre  of  popularity  for  the  plays  outside  the  play- 
house by  1726  which  he  can  describe  as  follows :  ' '  This  Author 
is  grown  so  universal  a  Book,  that  there  are  very  few  Studies, 
or  Collections  of  Books,  tho'  small,  amongst  which  it  does  not 
hold  a  Place.  And  there  is  scarce  a  Poet,  that  our  English 
Tongue  boasts  of,  who  is  more  the  Subject  of  the  Ladies  Read- 
ing. "3T  Certain  it  is  that  the  Censor  rendered  a  service  to 
Shakespeare  which  the  "inimitable  Spectator"  had  been  un- 
willing or  unable  to  perform. 

As  criticism  this  body  of  Shakespearean  comment  is  not  in- 
trinsically remarkable;  its  judgments  seem  quite  commonplace 
to-day.  It  becomes  remarkable  only  in  comparison  with  corre- 
sponding utterances  of  two  centuries  ago.  It  is  not  entirely  free 
from  the  conventionalisms  of  a  classical  age.  But  these  are  ac- 
cidental and  not  essential.  We  have  found  that  it  is  singularly 
liberal  in  aim  and  method  and  attitude  toward  ancient  rules; 
that  it  springs  from  an  intelligent  understanding  of  the  form 
and  spirit  of  Elizabethan  plays,  and  that  it  is  genuinely  re- 
sponsive to  the  beauty  of  these  plays  as  poetry;  that  it  is  out- 
spoken in  its  condemnation  of  Restoration  drama  and  the  degen- 
erate drama  of  the  day;  and,  finally,  that  it  proclaims,  in  the 
midst  of  a  peculiarly  unrom antic  generation,  the  superiority  of 
Shakespeare  over  all  other  poets  whatsoever,  both  in  the  de- 
piction of  nature  and  in  poetic  art.  Indeed,  it  .does  not  seem 
extravagant  to  say  that  the  Shakespearean  criticism  of  the 
Censor  papers  is  essentially  un-Augustan,  and  that  Lewis  Theo- 
bald was  doing  more  than  any  other  man  to  uphold  the  im- 
perial reputation  of  Shakespeare  at  the  expiration  of  the  first 
hundred  years. 

ziShak.  Restored,  Introd. 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  THE  NEW  STAGECRAFT 
BY  WILLIAM  LEIGH  SOWERS 

There  is  a  frequently  quoted  generalization  to  the  effect  that 
the  seventeenth  century  was  noteworthy  for  great  drama,  the 
eighteenth  for  great  acting,  and  the  nineteenth  for  great  stage 
mounting.  But  although  it  is  true  that  the  nineteenth  century 
made  remarkable  improvement  in  the  methods  of  stage  setting 
and  saw  some  notable  productions,  it  seems  likely  that  the  stage 
mounting  of  the  twentieth  century  will  be  even  more  note- 
worthy. In  the  last  few  years  experiments  have  been  carried 
on,  both  in  this  country  and  abroad,  that  are  revolutionizing 
methods  of  •  scenic  production.  Of  late  these  experiments  have 
become  so  numerous  and  so  significant  that  they  demand  the 
attention  of  the  student  of  the  theatre,  and  since  many  of  them 
have  dealt  with  Shakespeare,  they  are  of  particular  interest 
to  the  student  of  his  work.  In  the  last  ten  or  fifteen,  years 
there  have  been  scores  of  Shakespearean  productions  with 
unusual  settings,  made  according  to  new  principles  of  scenic 
effect  and  illustrating  new  theories  of  the  function  of  theatri- 
cal decoration.  Already  the  artistic  accomplishment  of  this 
new  art  of  the  theatre  has  been  very  considerable;  and  the 
movement  is  clearly  not  of  to-day  only,  but  of  tomorrow.  In 
the  present  paper  I  shall  point  out  its  relation  to  the  repre- 
sentation of  Shakespeare. 

But  before  we  plunge  into  a  discussion  of  the  new  stagecraft, 
we  should  glance  for  a  moment  at  Shakespearean  production  in 
general.  It  can  be  roughly  divided  into  three  schools,  the  re- 
alistic method,  the  Elizabethan  tradition,  and  what  is  'generally 
called  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  or  the  new  stagecraft.  To 
prepare  the  way  for  our  consideration  of  this  last  type,  I  must 
first  present  briefly  its  two  rival  schools. 

The  realistic  tradition,  or  the  Irving  tradition,  as  it  is  often 
called  because  Henry  Irving  gave  it  its  most  artistic  expres- 
sion, has  been  the  gradual  growth  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Before  the  twenties  there  was  little  attempt  at  historical  accu- 
racy and  scenic  completeness  in  Shakespearean  production  on 

[138] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          139 

the  English  stage.  But  Charles  Kemble  with  the 'assistance  of 
the  antiquarian  Planche  founded  a  new  tradition  of  elaborate 
and  accurate  representation,  which  has  been  carried  on  in 
England  by  Charles  Kean,  Henry  Irving,  and  more  recently  Sir 
Herbert  Tree.  It  reached  the  Continent  through  the  famous 
German  Meiningen  company,  which  spread  its  principles  over 
Europe,  and  it  is  familiar  to  us  in  America  in  the  productions 
of  Mantell  and  of  Sothern  and  Marlowe.  As  the  name  implies, 
the  realistic  school  of  mounting  attempts  a  realistic,  histori- 
cally accurate,  and  generally  a  detailed  and  elaborate  repro- 
duction of  the  life  and  background  of  a  definite  period  and 
place  to  which  the  play  has  been  assigned.  Antiquarians  work 
out  details  of  costume  and  design  properties ;  scene  painters 
make  studies  of  old  English  castles  and  halls,  or  sketch  in 
Venice  and  Elsinore:  everything  is  as  exact  and  detailed  as  it 
can  be  made  in  canvas  and  ]*ipier-mache.  Apparently  the 
aim  is  to  have  the  stage  decoration  reflect  as  minutely  as  pos- 
sible the  actualities  of  real  life. 

In  practice,  the  realistic  method  is  both  good  and  bad.  To  it 
we  owe  many  beautiful  individual  scenes,  especially  from  the 
work  of  Irving  and  Tree.  Some  of  its  great  crowds  and  pa- 
geants haunt  the  memory,  and  the  lavish  antiquarian  staging 
of  the  plays  with  a  definite  historical  background  has  educa- 
tional value.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  its  serious  defects  can 
be  easily  recognized.  It  invariably  leads  to  lavish  and  overe- 
laborate  mounting  that  too  often  "buries  Shakespeare  under 
the  upholstry."  Some  of  Shakespeare's  plays  cannot  stand 
the  weight  of  spectacle  and  elaborate  mise-en-scene.  The  lav- 
ish decorations  not  only  attract  attention  to  themselves  at  the 
expense  of  the  spirit  of  the  play,  but  they  often  lack  beauty 
and  consistency  because  costumes,  settings,  and  properties  have 
been  independently  designed  and  have  not  been  brought  into 
artistic  unity.  Moreover,  elaborate  scenery  puts  the  producer 
in  an  unfortunate  dilemma:  either  he  must  have  many  long 
and  tiresome  waits  while  the  scenes  are  being  built  up  if  he 
follows  Shakespeare  closely,  or  he  must  rearrange  the  text  to 
fit  a  few  lavish  settings.  He  usually  takes  a  middle  ground 
with  unsatisfactory  results:  not  only  are  the  waits  tiresome, 

10— s 


140  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

but  the  Shakespearean  order  is  not  respected,  and  the  flow  of 
scene,  so  essential  to  a  true  representation,  is  broken  up.  Many 
of  the  defects  of  realistic  mounting  on  the  English-speaking 
stage  are  merely  the  result  of  letting  makeshifts  harden  into 
conventions.  Any  one  can  point  out  the  inconsistent  perspec- 
tive, the  unnatural  lighting,  and  the  unillusive  exteriors  of  the 
realistic  stage ;  but  the  producers  have  merely  accepted  them 
as  necessary  evils.  In  spite  of  its  defects,  however,  tho  realistic 
tradition,  which  has  become  a  conventionally  realistic  tradi- 
tion, is  the  accepted  method  of  mounting  on  our  stage  to-day. 
Fortunately  there  are  many  signs  to  show  that  it  can  and  will 
be  made  over,  through  the  influence  of  the  new  stagecraft,  into 
what  it  should  be- — a  beautiful  and  imaginative  realism. 

The  second  school  of  Shakespearean  production  I  have  called 
the  Elizabethan  tradition.  By  it  I  mean  the  representation  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  as  they  were  given  in  his  time.  Of  late 
such  representations  on  reproductions  of  Elizabethan  stages 
have  become  important  enough  to  possess  more  than  an  antiqua- 
rian interest.  Fortunately  there  is  enough  difference  of  opin- 
ion regarding  the  details  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre  to  en- 
courage varied  experimentation.  Since  1881  William  Poel  has 
been  pointing  out  in  England  the  advantages  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan stage,  upon  which  he  has  made  many  fine  productions. 
In  Germany  it  has  bee-n  known  since  1889,  when  it  was  first  used 
in  Munich  for  mounting  Shakespeare.  And  in  America  it  has 
been  tried  again  and  again  in  the  universities,  notably  at  Har- 
vard. Mloreover,  it  will  be  remembered  that  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  New  Theatre  productions  was  The  Winter's 
Tale  in  the  old  manner.  The  simplicity  yet  the  richness  of  the 
background,  and  the  rapid  flow  of  the  action  made  it  one  of 
the  representations  that  can  be  remembered  with  the  most 
pleasure.  Within  the  last  year  there  have  been  several  inter- 
esting revivals  in  honor  of  Shakespeare's  memory.  Forbes- 
Robertson  appeared  in  Hamlet  on  an  Elizabethan  stage  at  Har- 
vard; the  Drama  Society  of  New  York  presented  The  Tempest 
on  an  old  stage  of  unusual  design ;  and  the  Irving  Place  The- 
atre of  New  York  gave  The  Taming  of  tlw  Shrew  in  German 
on  an  Elizabethan  stage,  freely  adapted  according  to  the  meth- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          141 

ods  of  the  newer  German  stagecraft.  In  its  simplest  form  the 
tradition  may  be  traced  in  the  curtains  that  the  woodland 
companies — the  Greet,  the  Coburn,  and  the  Devereux  players 
— use  when  they  act  indoors. 

One  scarcely  needs  to  point  out  the  advantages  and  the  de- 
fects of  the  Elizabethan  stage  for  modern  representations  of 
Shakespeare.  It  yields  simplicity;  it  provides  an  attractive 
background  that  is  unobtrusive;  it  permits  such  rapidity  of 
movement  that  a  Shakespearean  play  can  be  given  without 
cuts.  And  yet  many  think  it  bare,  and  desire  more  sugges- 
tion of  locality  and  atmosphere  for  the  individual  scene.  No 
one  seems  to  accept  the  tradition  in  its  simplicity,  for  we 
have  grown  out  of  sympathy  with  some  of  its  conventions:  we 
do  not  admire  a  male  Juliet  or  Cleopatra,  and  we  find  exact 
Elizabethan  costumes  out  of  place  in  some  of  the  historical  and 
fantastic  plays.  So  at  best  the  tradition  has  to  be  adapted  to 
modern  requirements,  and  the  disturbing  question  is  how  far 
should  this  adaptation  go.  Although  it  is  not  likely  that  the 
Elizabethan  tradition  in  its  simplicity  will  ever  establish  itself 
in  general  favor,  it  is  even  now  doing  a  valuable  service  by 
furnishing  suggestions  to  the  new  art  of  the  stage.  And  it 
may  be  that  ultimately  the  new  stagecraft  will  not  only  make 
our  threadbare  realistic  method  of  mounting  over  into  a  beau- 
tiful realism,  but  will  also  develop  from  the  rigid  conventional 
tradition  of  the  Elizabethans  a  freer,  more  symbolic,  more  im- 
aginative conventionalism. 

Now  that  we  have  considered  the  realistic  and  the  Eliza- 
bethan traditions  of  stage-mounting,  we  are  ready  to  turn  to  the 
new  stagecraft,  or  the  new  art  of  the  theatre.  Although  it  is 
closely  related  to  the  two  o'ther  methods  and  has  borrowed 
freely  whatever  good  it  found  in  them,  it  is  a  separate  and 
clearly  defined  movement  that  can  be  distinctly  traced.  It 
arose  on  the  Continent ;  and  in  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years  has 
developed  chiefly  in  Germany  and  Russia,  spreading  to  Italy, 
France,  and  England,  and,  in  the  last  five  years,  to  the  United 
States.  Although  it  is  impossible  to  summarize  the  theories  of 
a  movement  still  in  its  experimental  days,  a  few  principles 
gathered  from  its  practice  can  be  pointed  out.  The  new  stage- 


142  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

craft  questions  and  evaluates  all  traditional  methods  of  pro- 
duction, and  calls  in  expert  advice  in  the  attempt  to  solve  such 
problems  as  lighting  and  scene  shifting.  At  the  head  of  each 
production  it  places  one  trained  man  who  is  to  bring  every 
detail  into  perfect  harmony  of  effect.  It  plans  settings  not 
only  for  their  dramatic  appropriateness  but  for  their  pure 
beauty  of  design :  decorations  are  not  mere  backgrounds,  but 
symbols  that  interpret  the  spirit  of  the  piece.  Especially  im- 
portant is  the  emphasis  placed  on  the  artistic  and  imaginative 
use  of  color  and  light.  However,  the  new  stagecraft  has  no 
one  manner,  but  as  many  as  there  are  producers  and  problems 
of  design  and  interpretation.  Perhaps  we  can  most  readily 
come  to  a  clearer  understanding  of  it  by  studying  the  work  of 
some  of  the  important  and  typical  men  who  have  used  it  in  the 
production  of  Shakespeare. 

Edward  Gordon  Craig  stands  out  prominently  as  theorist, 
publicist,  and  practitioner  of  the  new  art  of  the  stage,  the  un- 
wavering champion  of  the  aesthetic  theatre.  Still  a  young  man, 
he  does  not  come  to  the  problems  of  stage  mounting  as  a  mere 
theorist  and  revolutionist.  He  is  the  son  of  Ellen  Terry,  and 
has  himself  been  an  actor  long  enough  to  form  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  the  stage  of  our  time.  But  he  is  also  an 
artist;  and  finding  the  ordinary  methods  of  production  utterly 
unsatisfactory,  he  has  tried  by  constant  experiment  to  discover 
the  true  art  of  the  theatre  by  getting  back  to  fundamentals. 
In  the  early  years  of  the  century  he  produced  several  plays  in 
London,  and  since  then  he  has  directed  a  few  important  revi- 
vals, but  his  theories  have  been  spread  largely  by  his  exhi- 
bitions of  models,  by  his  magazine  the  Mask,  and  by  his  two 
important  books,  On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre  and  Towards  a 
New  Theatre.  More  recently  he  has  established  in  Florence  a 
school  where  the  craft  of  production  may  be  learned  by  prom- 
ising young  artists.  The  ideas  of  no  theorist  of  the  new  move- 
ment in  stage  decoration  have  been  so  widely  influential. 

Craig  turns  his  back  squarely  on  realism  and  realistic  plays, 
and  confines  himself  entirely  to  the  poetic  and  romantic  drama. 
He  believes  that  the  setting  which  expresses  the  atmosphere 
and  essence  of  a  play  has  greater  truth  than  one  that  merely  re- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          143 

produces  actualities.  He  conceives  scenery  as  decoration  but 
even  more  as  interpretation.  And  he  tries  to  capture  the  mood 
of  a  play,  not  as  the  realists  do  by  multiplying  realistic  detail, 
but  by  extreme  simplification  which  eliminates  any  detail  that 
is  not  significant  and  necessary..  He  is  artist  enough,  more- 
over, to  make  each  setting  a  problem  in  pure  design,  a  study, 
in  line  and  mass  and  color,  that  rejects  entirely  the  old  false 
perspective  of  the  stage.  More  and  more  his  settings  have 
shown  the  architectural  note,  but  his  great  walls  and  towers 
and  flights  of  steps  have  little  resemblance  to  the  architec- 
tural designs  painted  flat  on  the  flimsy  canvas  of  the  "realis- 
tic" stage,  for  they  are  plastic  three-dimension  architecture 
against  which  plastic  figures  do  not  look  out  of  place.  More- 
over, by  overseeing  every  detail  personally  and  by  taking  end- 
less pains,  he  is  able  to  give  a  remarkable  completeness  and 
unity  to  his  productions.  Since  his  sympathy  is  really  with  the 
mimodrama  rather  than  with  the  literary  drama,  he  puts  great 
emphasis  on  the  importance  of  movement,  by  which  he  means 
the  * '  everchanging  working  out  of  artistic  designs  in,  motion 
by  a  group  of  actors  before  a  background." 

Some  of  Craig's  most  valuable  experimentation  has  been 
with  lighting,  a  department  of  production  of  very  great  im- 
portance in  the  new  stagecraft.  The  shortcomings  of  the  usual 
methods  of  lighting  the  stage  have  long  been  known,  but  only 
recently  have  successful  efforts  been  made  to  remedy  them. 
Craig  practically  does  away  with  the  footlights  and  their  un- 
natural shadows,  and  lights  the  stage  from  above  or  from  the 
side.  He  does  not  use  light  realistically  but  aesthetically  and 
symbolically:  the  tones  of  light,  the  shadows,  the  atmosphere 
correspond  to  the  spirit  of  the  piece  at  that  moment  and  not 
to  reality.  By  means  of  light  he  can  always  bring  out  the  most 
important  point  on  the  stage  at  any  given  time.  For  instance, 
he  sometimes  arranges  the  stage  with  a  crowd  in  front  in  the 
shadow  and  the  speaker  behind  them  in  the  bright  light.  He  is 
particularly  successful  in  painting  with  shadows  and  colored 
lights  upon  the  great  flat  surfaces  of  natural  tone  that  form  his 
settings.  Moreover,  he  can  project  designs  upon  his  settings 
or  throw  images  of  distant  trees  and  hills  upon  the  rear  screen. 


144  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

So  amazing  is  his  control  over  lights  and  so  remarkable  is  the 
atmosphere  that  he  can  create  with  them  that  he  can  get  very 
Different  effects  with  only  slight  changes  of  scenery.  All  in 
all,  Craig  has  proved  perhaps  the  most  imaginative  reformer 
in  stage  lighting  that  the  new  movement  has  produced. 

In  his  two  books,  On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre  and  Towards 
a  New  Theatre,  are  a  number  of  designs  for  Shakespearean 
plays  that  should  be  examined  by  all  students  of  the  drama. 
They  include  settings  for  Julius  Caesar,  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
Henry  V,  Macbeth,  and  Hamlet.  The  decoration  for  Hamlet, 
Act  I,  Scene  4,  illustrates  Craig's  earlier  manner:  narrow  cur- 
tains of  great  height  rise  vaguely  above  a  few  low  steps,  and 
part  to  give  a  narrow  vertical  strip  of  darkness  and  a  glimpse 
of  the  moon.  The  setting  for  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  I,  Scene 
5,  shows  simple  curtains  to  be  bathed  in  warm  yellow  light  and 
at  one  side  a  great  silvery  white  seat  for  the  lovers.  The  set- 
ting for  the  forum  scene  in  Julius  Caesar  is  decidedly  original. 
High  in  the  background  is  the  great  crowd  sweeping  up  from 
left  to  right;  high  in  the  middle  distance  on  a  rostrum  above 
flights  of  steps  stands  the  man  who  is  persuading  the  crowd; 
low  in  the  foreground  sit  the  group  against  whom  he  is  per- 
suading the  crowd.  The  Macbeth  scenes  are  strikingly  archi- 
tectural, glimpses  of  great  towers,  dark  interiors  with  huge  low 
arches,  massive  and  endless  corridors.  Particularly  interesting 
is  the  decoration  for  the  sleep-walking  scene.  The  greater  part 
of  the  stage  is  filled  by  a  huge  round  tower  like  a  giant  pillar, 
and  around  it  from  high  on  the  right  to  low  in  the  left  curves 
the  spiral  staircase.  For  vigor,  beauty,  and  appropriateness  of 
design  it  ranks  as  one  of  the  best  Shakespearean  decorations  ever 
planned.  Unfortunately  the  designs  are  not  colored,  but  even 
in  black  and  white  they  exhibit  fine  line  and  mass  and  suggest 
somewhat  the  atmosphere  that  the  real  settings  would  produce. 

In  his  most  recent  settings  Craig  has  used  portable  screens 
according  to  a  system  that  he  has  invented  and  patented.  These 
screens  he  tried  out  at  the  Abbey  Theatre  in  Dublin,  but  par- 
ticularly in  his  famous  production  of  Hamlet  at  the  Mbscow 
Art  Theatre  in  December,  1911,  a  production  that  many  con- 
gider  epoch-making  in  the  history  of  modern  stage  mounting. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          145 

The  whole  decoration  was  based  on  the  use  of  multiple  screens 
of  great  height  that  could  be  bent  or  folded  into  a  surprising 
variety  of  forms.  The  Moscow  screens,  which  were  almost  a 
yard  and  a  half  wide  and  as  tall  as  the  proscenium,  stood  by 
themselves  and  could  be  rearranged  rapidly  according  to  a  plan 
on  the  floor  of  the  stage.  By  slight  readjustment,  they  were 
made  to  form  pillars,  towers,  interiors  or  exteriors  of  many 
shapes,  and  straight  or  semicircular  screens  across  the  stage. 
When  they  were  used  with  great  steps  that  Craig  is  so  fond  of, 
the  effect  was  strikingly  architectural.  Although  the  screens 
were  only  undecorated  panels  in  neutral  tones  of  cream  and 
gold,  by  skilful  lighting  and  ingenious  arrangement  they  became 
suggestive  decorations  that  brought  out  to  a  marked  degree  the 
spiritual  significance  of  the  individual  scene.  In  the  grave- 
digging  scene  the  setting  suggested  a  subterranean  chamber, 
with  tombstones  of  different  sizes  and  a  little  staircase — "the 
living  world  outside,  the  dead  world  inside."  In  the  Court 
scene,  Act  I,  Scene  2,  Hamlet  was  a  figure  in  gray  against  the 
gold  of  the  Court.  The  King  and  Queen  were  seated  high  up 
in  the  back  center  of  the  stage  in  the  full  light :  in  front  of  them 
stood  the  crowd  of  courtiers;  and  still  farther  front,  in  the 
shadow,  Hamlet  reclined  on  a  long  couch  that  formed  a  barrier 
across  the  stage- — a  barrier  suggestive  of  the  shrouded  graves 
of  his  hopes.  But  when  the  courtiers  went  and  Hamlet  and 
the  King  stood  face  to  face,  the  light  shifted  to  Hamlet.  In 
the  last  act  the  screens  were  arranged  in  three  deep  vistas,  long 
avenues  that  disappeared  in  shadow.  The  artistry  and  the 
originality  of  the  whole  production,  upon  which  Craig  and 
Stanislawsky 's  famous  Moscow  company  worked  for  three  years, 
made  it  one  of  the  most  notable  of  all  Shakespearean  represen- 
tations. 

But  it  is  in  Germany,  more  than  in  any  other  country,  that 
the  new  stagecraft  has  made  greatest  progress  and  has  been 
most  frequently  applied  to  the  production  of  Shakespeare.  For 
our  present  purpose  the  work  of  Max  Reinhardt  of  Berlin,  Ger- 
many's greatest  producer,  may  be  taken  as  representative  of 
the  new  art  of  the  theatre  in  Germany.  Reinhardt  had  a  long 
experience  as  a  successful  actor  before  he  became  an  important 


146  'University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

manager  and  producer  in  Berlin.  For  a  number  of  years  he 
has  managed  one  of  the  first  little  theatres  in  Berlin  as  well  as 
the  famous  Deutsches  Theater,  and  recently  he  has  also  been 
director  of  the  great  People's  Theater.  He  has  so  educated 
a  following  in  Berlin  that  he  can  conduct  artistic  theatres  on 
the  repertory  plan  with  financial  success.  Not  'only  has  he 
been  very  active  in  Berlin,  but  he  has  sent  his  productions  over 
Germany,  and  even  as  far  as  England  and  America.  Several 
of  them  have  been  given  in  London,  and  his  Sumurun  has 
been  presented  in  New  York.  Perhaps  he  has  attracted  widest 
attention  by  his  spectacular  revivals  of  Greek  plays  in  a  great 
circus  in  Berlin,  and  by  his  Shakespearean  productions  at  the 
Deutsches  Theater.  Ever  since  the  remarkable  success  of  his 
A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  there  in  1911,  Shakespeare  has 
had  an  important  place  in  the  bills  of  the  theatre.  Many 
Shakespearean  plays  have  been  given,  some  of  them  rnany^ 
times,  and  only  the  war  caused  the  abandonment  of  a  plan  to 
present  a  great  cycle  of  them.  No  theatre  in  the  world  can 
point  to  a  more  notable  series  of  Shakespearean  revivals  in 
the  last  five  years. 

Reinhardt  is  not  a  scene  painter,  but  a  producer  who  has 
such  an  intimate  knowledge  of  all  departments  of  production 
that  he  can  select  the  right  scene  painter,  architect,  and  cos- 
tume-designer to  carry  out  Ms  ideas  for  a  given  play,  and 
working  through  them,  can  bring  every  detail  into  unity  of 
effect.  In  many  respects  his  ideals  are  similar  to  Craig's.  He 
eliminates  false  perspective;  he  insists  on  pure  beauty  as  well 
as  illusion  in  a  stage  decoration ;  he  emphasizes  pantomime  and 
movement.  But  he  is  more  many-sided  than  Craig,  for  he 
experiments  with  realistic  as  well  as  symbolic  decoration.  In. 
some  respects  he  is  also  more  daring  and  less  reverent.  He 
frankly  adapts  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare  to  gain  an  imme- 
diate effect  from  a  present-day  audience.  He  likes  to  appeal 
directly  to  the  simple  human  passions  common  to  great  masses 
of  people,  and  he  has  tried  in  all  of  his  productions  to  bring 
the  audience  and  the  actors  into  immediate  contact  with  one 
another.  By  building  out  the  stage,  by  presenting  plays  in 
great  arenas,  and  by  bringing  the  actors  onto  the  stage  from 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          147 

among  the  spectators,  he  has  tried  to  make  the  audience  have 
an  important  part  in  the  play.  On  the  whole,  although  he 
occasionally  expresses  his  own  individuality  in  the  decoration 
of  a  play  rather  than  the  spirit  of  the  author,  and  although 
he  sometimes  shows  a  tendency  toward  rather  heavy,  bizarre, 
and  even  grotesque  effects,  yet  most  of  his  work  is  highly  sig- 
nificant, and  all  of  it  is  interesting. 

With  characteristic   efficiency   Reinhardt  and  other  German 
producers  have  called  in  scientists  and  mechanicians  to  solve 
difficulties  of  staging.     Like  Craig  they  have  experimented  a 
great  deal  with  light,  and  as  the  result  of  a  number  of  inven- 
tions they  can  obtain  many  unusual  and  striking  effects.     Rein- 
hardt uses  the  footlights  very  sparingly,  but  illuminates  the  stage 
from  the  gallery  and  wings  or  from  over  the  proscenium,  letting 
the  light  seem  to  fall  from  only  one  side  at  once.     He  makes 
great  use  of  the  spotlight  in  emphasizing  the  important  point 
in  the  action,  and  like  Craig  he  employs  light  less  for  realistic 
than  for  aesthetic  and  emotional  effect  irrespective  of  what  it 
would  be  in  real  life.     By  means  of  the  dome  cyclorama  which 
has  recently  appeared  in  the  best  German  theatres,  a  surpris- 
ing variety  in  lighting  can  be  secured,  and  some  of  the  most 
evident  shortcomings  of  our  usual  method  of  illuminating  ex- 
terior scenes  can  be  eliminated.     "We  are  all  familiar  with  the 
crude  convention  according  to  which  sky  is  represented  by  a  blue 
backdrop,  shaking  in  the  wind,  and  by  narrow  strips  of  blue  cloth 
across  the  top  of  the  stage  .called  sky  borders.     No  matter  how 
solidly  a  scene  may  be  built  up,  its  effect  is  lost  against  so 
disillusioning  a  background.     Now  Reinhardt  and  the  Germans 
have  used  their  ingenuity  to  get  around  this  difficulty,   and 
they  have  had  considerable  success.     They  curve  the  walls  at 
the  back  of  the  stage  around  in  a  great  semicircle  that  encloses 
the  stage  proper  and  raise  them  high  up  inside  the  proscenium 
in  a  great  half  dome  of  plaster  or  concrete  that  when  correctly 
lighted  gives  from  every  angle  the  effect  of  real  sky.     Upon  its 
neutral  surface,  sky  and  cloud  effects  may  be  thrown,  and  from 
it  light  may  be  diffused  to  the  stage  below.     It  is  generally 
used  in  connection  with  another  important  invention,  the  For- 
tuny  lighting  system,  which  does  away  almost  entirely  with  dl- 


148  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

rect  lighting.     The  lamps  are  placed  inside  the  proscenium  above 
the  stage,  and  the  light  is  diffused  and  reflected  by  colored  silks 
and  thrown  upon  the  dome  cyclorama  or  directed  to  any  part 
of  the  stage.     Every  conceivable  shade  of  color  can  be  obtained 
as  well  as  effects  of  great  distance.     Moreover,  Reinhardt  has 
gained  very  illusive  and  beautiful  effects  of  distance  by  means 
of  net  curtains  that  are  cleverly  lighted.     Thus  the  Germans 
use  mechanical  ingenuity  to  secure  a  more  beautiful  realism. 
Another  device  that  Reinhardt  has  brought  into  effective  use 
is  the  revolving  stage.     One  of  the  chief  difficulties  of  realistic 
mounting  is  the  length  of  time  required  for  scene  shifting;  the 
waits  are  so  frequent  and  so  long  that  the  flow  of  the  action 
is  destroyed.     Reinhardt  has  largely  corrected  this  defect  by 
employing  a  revolving  stage  by  means  of  which  scene  can  fol- 
low scene  in  quick  succession.     As  his  stage  at  the  Deutsches 
Theater  presents  one-fifth  of  its  circumference  at  the  proscenium 
every  time,  he  can  set  at  least  five  scenes  at  once,  and  by  a  few 
changes  he  can  use  most  of  the  settings  for  more  than  one  scene. 
He  carefully  plans  how  many  effective  scenes  he  can  get  into 
the  available  space,  and  builds  them  up  solid,  each  one  helping 
to  support  the  others.     If  he  arranges  his  scenes  ingeniously, 
there  is  no  need  for  any  waits  at  all,  except  the  one  long  wait 
that  the  German  expects  for  relaxation  in  the  middle  of  a  play. 
For  example  in  the  production  of  Henry  IV,  Part  I,  the  stage 
was  set  with  five  scenes :  the  tavern,  a  room  in  the  castle,  a  room 
in  the  palace,  "before  the  inn,"  and  an  elaborate  s^ttin^  of  the 
country  road.     But  by  a  change  of  curtains  the  room   in  the 
palace  could  become  other  rooms,  and  finally  the  king's  tent; 
the  tavern  became  the  rebels'  tent;  and  "before  the  inn"  became 
the  battlefield.     It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out  the  value 
of  such  a  stage  in  .the  production  of  Shakespeare  where  many 
short  scenes  must  be   placed  upon  the   stage.     The   revolving 
stage  is  by  no  means  the  only  device  with  a  similar  purpose,  for 
the  sliding  stage  and  the  sinking  stage  are  widely  experimented 
wTith  in  Germany.     All  these  devices  are  providing  the  producer 
with  finer  tools  for  his  work.     Although  the  problem  of  stage 
mobility  has  not  by  any  means  been  solved,  the  Germans  hare 
done  a  great  deal  to  further  its  solution. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          149 

Among  the  Shakespearean  plays  that  Reinhardt  has  pro- 
duced at  the  Deutsches  Theater  are  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Julius  Caesar,  A  Comedy  of  Errors,  A  Winter's  Tale, 
King  Lear,  Hamlet,  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  Henry  IV, 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Twelfth  Night  and  Macbeth.  The  great  success  of  A 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  in  1905  encouraged  him  to  make 
Shakespeare  prominent  in  the  repertory  of  the  Deutsches  Theater. 
This  production  was  in  Reinhardt 's  earlier  manner,  but  although 
it  was  largely  realistic  and  extremely  elaborate,  it  brought  out 
very  successfully  the  romantic  and  fantastic  spirit  of  the  play. 
Among  the  great  masses  of  tangled  undergrowth  and  gleaming 
birch  trees  that  filled  the  huge  stage,  hundreds  of  elves,  gnomes, 
goblins,  and  fairies  danced  in  the  moonlight  on  the  green-  moss. 
In  Julius  Caesar,  too,  Reinhardt  gave  a  series  of  elaborate  pic- 
tures of  the  real  Rome  of  the  past.  But  he  has  no  one  manner, 
for  he  studies  each  play  to  be  mounted  as  a  new  problem  and 
seeks  in  his  decoration  to  express  its  spirit.  Moreover,  he  is 
fertile  in  original  devices.  For  instance,  his  Comedy  of  Errors 
was  presented  on  a  purely  conventional  stage  of  unusual  design : 
the  stage  proper  was  spanned  by  a  bridge  leading  from  one 
flight  of  steps  to  another  and  forming  an  upper  stage;  beneath 
it  was  a  conventional  glimpse  of  the  harbor,  and  behind  and 
above  it  the  blue  sky.  Across  the  bridge,  always  from  right  to 
left,  went  the  action,  and  the  difficulty  of  making  the  rather 
steep  approaches  added  to  the  hurry,  the  bustle,  and  the  confu- 
sion of  the  farce.  A  Winter's  Tale  was  set  on  an  even  more 
conventional  stage.  At  right  and  left  were  placed  two  tall  dark 
green  screens,  forming  a  deep  inner  proscenium1:  a  bright  green 
curtain  between  the  front  two  provided  a  small  room,  a  dark 
green  curtain  between  the  rear  two  provided  a  large  one.  In 
these  settings  which  merely  suggested  rooms  in  the  palace  of 
Leontes,  the  action  of  the  first  part  of 'the  play  took  place. 
For  the  judgment  scene,  across  the  back  of  the  stage  a  dark 
wall  against  a  great  expanse  of  blue  sky  formed  the  background 
for  a  great  crowd.  For  the  action  in  Bohemia  there  was  a 
pretty  and  fantastic  pastoral  setting  in  the  conventional  manner, 
green  grass,  a  tree  with  a  bench,  a  quaint  cottage,  and  at  ths 


150  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

back  the  masts  and  sails  of  ships  to  suggest  the  sea.    King  Lear 
was  set  almost  entirely  with  simple  tapestries  in  a  conventional 
stage  frame:  for  interiors,  tapestries  with  designs  that,  while 
in  a  way  realistic,  suggested  early  Britain;  for  exteriors  dark 
draperies  with  a  glimpse  of  the  sky  or  distant  sea.     Hamlet 
Reinhardt  has  mounted  more  than  once,  but  always  simply  and 
suggestively.     The  production  of  1910  relied  almost  entirely  on 
very  simple  curtains  on  a  stage  that  had  been  built  out  into  the 
auditorium  to  gain  intimacy :  curtains  of  different  designs  sug- 
gested different  rooms  and  permitted  a  very  rapid  change  of 
scene.     But  although  any  of  the  Reinhardt  productions  repay 
the  student  of  stage   mounting,  we  must   confine   ourselves  to 
one  more  typical  example,  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew.     Rein- 
hardt retained  the  induction  and  consistently  carried  out  the  idea 
of  the  play  within  the  play.     After  the  induction  Sly  watched 
the  action  from  the  great  stone  seat  on  a  low  platform  stage 
that  was  built  out  below  the  stage  proper  over  the  orchestra  pit. 
O'n  the  stage  proper  a  series  of  diminishing  arches,  one  behind 
the  other,  led  to  a  broad  landscape  at  the  back.     Just  in  front  of 
it  a  broad  balustraded  terrace,   reached  by  a  flight  of  three 
steps  in  the  center,  crossed  the  stage.     The  method  of  conduct- 
ing the  play  was  original  and  effective.     The  act  drop  curtains 
parted  to  show  landscape  tapestries  before  which  the  drunken 
Sly  appeared.     The  tapestries  were  then  drawn  aside  to  show 
the  white  satin  hangings  of  the  Lord's  chamber  farther  up  stage. 
In  turn  these  curtains  were  drawn  aside  to  show  the  whole  stage. 
Along  the  terrace  at  the  back  the  players  entered  and  presented 
their  play  before  Sly  with  what  properties  they  had  in  their 
wagon  or  with  furnishings  appropriated  from  the  palace.     The 
main  action  of  the  play  went  on  before  improvised  settings  of 
screens  or  curtains  held  up  by  the  servants  and  changed  in  full 
sight  of  the  audience.     A  few  heavy  properties,   such  as  the 
large  canopied  seat  and  table  used  in  Petruchio's  house,  were 
raised  into  the  flies.     The  banquet  scene  at  the  end  of  the  play 
was  set  on  the  terrace  against  a  background  of  dark  blue  Italian 
sky. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  Reinhardt  is  the  only  important 
figure  in  the  new  stagecraft  of  Germany;  he  is  only  one  of 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          151 

many.  In  the  last  ten  years  there  has  been  widespread  ex- 
perimentation with  stage  mounting  in  German  theatres  which 
even  the  war  has  not  entirely  stopped.  Many  theatres  beside  the 
Deutsches  of  Berlin  have  given  unusual  and  artistic  representa- 
tions of  Shakespeare  in  the  new  manner.  But  we  must  turn  tc 
the  new  art  of  the  theatre  as  it  comes  more  closely  home  to  vft 
on  the  English  and  the  American  stage. 

In  England  the  new  stagecraft  may  be  represented  by  the  work 
of  Granville  Barker.  Barker  was  well  known  as  an  actor,  dra- 
matist, and  producer  of  realistic  plays  before  he  undertook  the 
production  of  Greek  and  Shakespearean  plays  in  the  new  man- 
ner. Like  Reinhardt  he  is  not  a  scene  painter,  but  a  producer 
of  the  artistic  type  who  can  give  a  representation  a  very  definite 
and  unified  effect.  He  has  been  fortunate  in  discovering  Norman 
Wilkinson  to  design  his  settings  and  Albert  Rotherstein  to  assist 
with  the  costumes.  '  In  London  his  stagging  of  A  Winter's  Tale, 
Twelfth  Night,  and 'A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  attracted  a 
great  deal  of  attention,  and  it  was  much  discussed  when  the 
plays  were  brought  to  the  United  States  early  in  1915.  Un- 
fortunately Barker 's  Shakespeare  representations  have  not  proved 
successful  enough  financially  to  encourage  him  to  continue  his 
experiments,  but  even  now  we  are  indebted  to  him  for  three 
unusually  imaginative  productions. 

The  settings  of  the  three  plays  were  of  the  same  general  type. 
By  combining  elements  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre  and  of  the 
conventional  stage  of  the  Germans,  Barker  designed  a  stage  that 
not  only  provided  interesting  decoration  for  the  individual  scene, 
but  permitted  so  great  a  rapidity  of  movement  that  the  plays 
could  be  given  without  cuts  in  a  reasonable  time.  Just  within 
the  proscenium  was  constructed  a  conventional  stage  frame  or 
inner  proscenium  in  gold  with  a  doorway  at  each  side  of  the 
stage.  Curtains  could  be  hung  along  the  back  or  the  front  of 
this  narrow  section,  which  formed  the  middle  stage.  Behind 
it  was  the  rear  stage  taking  up  the  greater  portion  of  the  stage 
proper,  and  in  front  of  it  was  the  platform  or  fore-stage  built 
out  over  the  orchestra  pit  into  the  stalls.  By  the  use  of  these 
three  stages,  Barker  had  no  difficulty  in  gaining  rapidity  and 
variety.  The  settings  did  not  represent  locality  realistically, 


152  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

but  were  rather  symbolic  decorations  of  considerable  individ- 
uality. As  a  rule,  the  backgrounds  were  kept  simple  in  order 
that  they  "might  bring  out  the  costumes. 

In  A  Winter's  Tale  the  palace  of  Leontes  was  suggested  by 
white  classic  columns  around  three  sides  of  the  stage,  ,  hung 
with  green  gold  curtains ;  in  the  center  were  gold  couches.  For 
Bohemia  there  was  a  thatched  cottage  and  a  wicker  fence — a 
considerable  concession  in  the  direction  of  realism.  But  other 
scenes  were  played  before  simple  draperies  hung  from  the  inner 
proscenium,  flat  landscapes  for  exteriors  and  simple  patterns 
for  interiors.  In  Twelfth  Night  also  conventional  decorative 
curtains  were  largely  used.  There  was,  however,  a  beautiful 
built-up  scene  for  Olivia's  garden  with  many  steps,  a  stiff  gold 
throne  with  a  pink  canopy,  and  fantastically  conventional  yew 
trees  and  garden  seats.  In  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  the 
inner  stage  was  reserved  for  Titania's  bower,  and  later  for 
Theseus'  palace  of  the  last  act;  and  long  curtains  painted •  in 
arabesques  or  conventional  designs  were  employed  as  backgrounds 
for  the  other  scenes.  For  Titania  's  bower  fantastic  curtains  sug- 
gesting the  forest  half  surrounded  a  green  mound;  filmy  gauzes 
floated  down  around  Titania 's  head  from  a  great  wreath  high  in 
the  air.  For  the  last  act  an  ingenious  arrangement  was  found. 
The  Court  reclined  on  couches  on  the  fore-stage,  and  like  the 
audience  looked  back  at  the  play  given  by  the  clowns  on  a  ter- 
race to  which  a  great  row  of  steps  led,  and  behind  which  towered 
a  row  of  great  pillars  against  a  sky  set  with  conventional  stars. 
But  although  certain  general  characteristics  of  Barker's  work 
can  be  pointed  out,  only  a  study  of  the  designs  themselves  can 
do  justice  to  their  value  as  fantastic  decoration.  Barker  un- 
doubtedly took  suggestions  from  Craig,  from  Reinhardt,  and 
from  the  Elizabethan  tradition,  but  he  worked  them  over  in  a.n 
individual  and  imaginative  way.  Work  like  his  was  partic- 
ularly needed  in  England  where  Shakespearean  production  had 
become  traditional  and  unprogressive,  and  his  revivals  must  be 
remembered  as  an  unusually  intelligent  attempt  to  give  us  the 
real  Shakespeare. 

The  new  stagecraft  reached  America  several  years  before  Bar- 
ker brought  us  his  Shakespeare,  but  at  first  it  appeared  at  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          153 

-opera  house  and  the  experimental  theatre.  Its  first  appearance 
in  connection  with  Shakespeare  was  not  on  the  professional  stage, 
but  in  an  amateur  performance  of  The  Comedy  of  Errors  by  the 
Delta  Upsilon  society  of  Harvard,  the  same  organization  that  this 
year  presented  Henry  IV,  Part  II,  very  notably  in  the  new  man- 
ner. Two  men  have  stood  out  as  leaders  of  the  new  movement 
in  the  United  States,  Josef  Urban  and  Livingston  Platt,  Urban, 
who  did  so  much  for  the  new  staging  at  the  Boston  Opera  House, 
designed  the  settings  for  Twelfth  Night,  given  by  Phyllis  Neilson- 
Terry  in  New  York  in  October,  1914,  and  more  recently  the  elab- 
orate decorations  of  Macbeth  and  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
for  H.  K.  Hackett  and  Viola  Allen. .  But  the  work  of  Platt 
can  best  represent  the  relation  of  the  new  stagecraft  in  America 
to  Shakespeare. 

Platt,  who  had  become  familiar  with  the  new  movement  abroad, 
was  making  interesting  decorations  for  the  tiny  stage  of  the  old 
Toy  Theatre  of  Boston  when  he  was  given  the  opportunity  of 
mounting  The  Comedy  of  Errors  for  the  Castle  Square  Stock 
Company  of  Boston  in  the  Spring  of  1913.  He  was  so  success- 
ful that  he  later  mounted  Julius  Caesar,  Hamlet,  and  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  for  the  same  company.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  a  stock  company  could  not  afford  lavish  productions, 
the  settings  were  interesting  and  artistic.  Platt  uses  a  variation 
of  the  device  we  have  already  met,  and  frames  his  stage  with  a 
shallow  inner  proscenium  pierced  on  each  side  of  the  stage  by  a 
door  and  connected  across  the  top  by  a  flat  cornice  that  makes 
"sky  borders"  unnecessary.  Interiors  are  suggested  by  differ- 
ent curtains  hung  from  the  back  of  this  cornice;  exteriors  are 
represented  by  decoration  farther  back  on  the  stage.  A  very 
slight  rearrangement  and  relighting  produces  a  great  difference 
of  effect.  In  Hamlet,  for  instance,  a  simple  tower  looming  up 
on  shadowy  stage  suggested  the  battlements;  an  ancient  cross, 
the  graveyard.  For  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  there  was  a 
beautiful  setting  of  great  tree  trunks  and  heavy  foliage  seen 
through  gauze.  Beautiful  effects  were  gained  in  The  Comedy 
of  Errors  by  the  simplest  means ;  curtains  and  a  few  significant 
properties  under  illusive  lighting  for  interiors,  and  a  doorway, 
a  wall,  or  a  cypress  tree  against  the  blue  cyclorama  for  exteriors. 


154  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Platt's  work  at  Castle  Square  attracted  the  attention  of  Miss 
Anglin,  and  she  engaged  him  to  make  decorations  for  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  As  You  Like  It,  The  Taming  of  fhe  Shrew,  and 
Twelfth  Night,  in  the  season  of  1913-1914.  The  settings  at- 
tracted favorable  comment  in  all  parts  of  the  country  on  ac- 
count of  their  beauty  and  simplicity.  Although  Shakespeare  in 
the  new  manner  had  been  given  in  the  amateur  and  stock  thea- 
ter, it  first  reached  the  regular  American  stage  in  the  Platt  pro- 
ductions for  Miss  Anglin. 

In  conclusion,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  codify  the  principles  or 
methods  of  the  new  stagecraft.  When  dealing  with  a  living 
movement  that  is  reaching  out  in  every  direction  in  eager  ex- 
periment, it  is  safer  to  present  the  practice  by  means  of  specific 
examples.  This  I  have  tried  to  do  in  the  preceding  pages;  we 
have  considered  not  only  the  realistic  and  the  conventional  meth- 
ods of  stage  mounting,  but  we  have  followed  the  work  of  such 
typical  men  as  Gordon  Craig,  Max  Reinhardt,  Granville  Barker, 
Livingston  Platt,  and  others.  From  such  a  study  it  is  clear 
that  in  many  countries  producers  are  seeking  and  finding  little 
by  little  a  new  beauty  and  efficiency  that,  if  present  promise  is 
fulfilled,  will  mean  adequate  representation  of  Shakespeare  in 
the  theatre  of  to-morrow. 


THE    STRATULAX    SCENES    IN    PLAUTUS' 
TRUCULENTUS 

BY  EDWIN  W.  FAY 

PREFATORY  NOTE:  In  the  transcription  of  Greek  words 
small  caps  sometimes  stand  for  unaccented  longs;  a,  e,  etc.,  re- 
present acute  longs  (but  occasionally  grave  shorts).  In  Latin 
words  the  circumflex  sometimes  does  duty  for  the  scroll  (as 
over  n)  •  and  a  raised  vowel  is  short  or  shortened.  Inserted 
letters  etc.,  are  enclosed  between  "slants" — /  /. 

The  Rudens  parallel  with  the  first  scene 

1.  The  striking  resemblance  in  action  and  mise-en-scene  be- 
tween Rudens  II,  iv  (414  sq.)  and  Truculentus  II,  ii  (256  sq.) 
has  not,  I  believe,  been  adduced  as  a  means  of  interpreting  the 
Truculentus  passage  more  precisely.  In  the  Rudens,  Ampelisca, 
a  meretrix,  armed  with  a  water  jug;  knocks  violently  on  the 
door  of  Daemones,  whose  manservant,  Sceparnio,  opens  to  her 
with  the  words : 

414  quis  est  qui  nostris  tarn  proterve  foribus  facit  iniuriam? 
Ampelisca  answers  with 

415  ego  sum  (c'est  moi). 

The  cross  old  man  (see  Act  I,  sc.  ii)  immediately  begins  to  ogle 
her  with  the  words: 

hem !  quid  hoc  boni  est  ?  eu  edepol  specie  lepida  mulierem  ! 
Later,  in  vs.  428  (431),  the  dialogue  continues: 

428  quid  nunc  uis?  Am.  sapienti  ornatus  quid  uelim  in- 
dicium facit. 

429.  Sc.  meus  quoque  hie  sapienti  ornatus  quid  uelim  in- 
dicium facit. 

The  commentators  (v.  e.  g.  Ussing  ad  loc.)  have  realized  that 
in  vs.  429  meus  ornatus  intimates  a  phallus ;  cf .  Skutsch,  Kleine 
Schriften,  193 :  fehlte  der  vers  432  des  Rudens,  so  wiirden  wir 
nichts  davon  wissen  dasz  der  phallus  zum  kostiim  des  schau- 
spieler's  der  nea  gehoren  konnte. 

[155] 

11— s 


156  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Not  a  phallus,  but  the  sera  or  patibulum  in  the  Rudens. 

2.  That  a  phallus  actually  belonged  to  Sceparnio's  costume 
seems  to  me  violently  unlikely.  But  he  might,  with  great  dra- 
matic propriety,  have  come  out  of  the  door  with  an  object  suitable 
for  the  gesticulation  of  a  phallus.  He  had  opened  the  door  to 
violent  knocking  and  we  might  even  expect  him  to  step  forth 
holding  in  his  hand  the  doorbar,  the  sera  (mochlos)  or  the 
pessulus  (bdlanos).  The  identical  situation  recurs  in  the  Ful- 
lones  of  Titinius: 

si   quisquam   hodie   praeter   hanc   posticum   nostrum   pepulerit 
patibulo  hoc  ei  caput  diffringam, 
a  passage  explained  as  follows  by  Nonius  (582,  15), 
patibulum,  sera  qua  ostia  obcluduntur;  quod  hac  remota  valvae 
pateant. 

What  the  sera  was  like  and  its  suitability  for  phallic  play 
comes  clearly  to  light  in  Paulus-Festus  23,  27 :  serae  .... 
defixae  postibus,  quemadmodum  ea  quae  terrae  inserunt.  With 
the  sera1  or  pessulus,2  with  anything  of  that  shape,3  the  actor 
might  easily,  by  a  gesture,  by  a  leer,  by  a  pause  or  an  intonation, 
have  intimated  a  phallus.4  Thus  with  an  excellent  economy  of 
stage  properties  and  with  due  realism  the  playwright  would 
have  got  his  effect,  availing  himself  at  the  same  time  of  a  motif  of 
horseplay  supplied  to  the  kaine  (New  Comedy)  from  the  archaia 
(Old  Comedy). 


1Serra  in  the  sense  of  "stake"  seems  also  to  be  used  by  Cato,  de  re 
mil.  ap.  Festum,  466,  30:  sin  forte  opus  sit  cuneo,  aut  globo,  aut  for- 
cipe,  aut  turribus,  aut  serra,  uti  adoriare.  As  for  the  double  rr  of 
serra,  Groeber  in  Archiv,  V,  467  has  abundantly  demonstrated  this 
rustic  form,  and  it  ought  to  be  restored  in  Silius,  Pun.  13,752,  obices 
munimina  ser/r/a  /e/,  cf.  munimina  portae  in  Ovid,  *Am.  1,  6,  29. 

*Cf.  pdssalos  denned  by  posthv;  and  Lat.  palus  as  used  by  Horace  in 
S.  1,  8,  5. 

'This  metaphor  is  of  unlimited  vadidity,  cf.  e.  g.  Eng.  yard  and 
even  trolley. 

4In  Trunculentus  351,  (fores)  quae  obsorbent  quicquid  uenit  intra 
pessulos,  a  pause  before  pessulos  would  make  it  mean  quasi  "mentulas" 
(as  Pompeius  was  named  Sopio  or  Ropio,  v.  Friedrich  ad  Catull.  37,  9). 
Note  that  pessulos  is  here  the  last  word  in  a  scene;  cf.  commercium 
"liaison",  spoken  by  the  same  Diniarchus  (§3)  as  the  last  word  of  I,  i. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          157 

Inverted  character  of  the  first  Stratulax  scene 

/ 

3.  In  the  first  Stratulax  scene  Astaphium,  an  ancilla  mere- 
tricis,  already  proclaimed  to  the  audience  as  Diniarchus'  dis- 
carded mistress5  (§  2,  fn. ;  §  5),  knocks  violently  at  a  door  which 
would  be  opened  to  her  she  knew  by  a  very  cross  and  surly 
doorkeeper   (ostiarius),  who  hated  her  and  all  her  sort   (vss. 
250  sq.),  but  she  braved  herself  to  the  effort  with  these  words: 

254     sed  fores  quicquid  est  futurum  feriam. 
Stratulax  (§20),  the  Truculent,  opens  to  her,  crying  out, 

256  quis  illic  est  qui  tarn  proterue  nostras  aedis  arietat? 
Astaphium  replies. 

257  ego  sum,  respice  ad  me. 

It  is  quite  important  for  her  to  reach  his  young  master  and, 
with  an  inversion  of  the  Rudens  situation,  she  tries  to  cajole 
Stratulax :  given  a  meretrix  and  an  ostiarius,  the  Plautine  audi- 
ence doubtless  sat  expectant  of  phallic  play.  But  now  Asta- 
phium's  pretty  speeches  are  of  no  avail,  and  Stratulax  kept 
jawing  and  sawing  back  at  her  till  she  cried  out : 

262  comprime  sis  iram.6     St.  meam  quidem  hercle  tu,  quae 
solita's,  comprime. 

263  inpudens,  quae  per  ridiculum  rustico  suades  stuprum! 
2647     As.  iram  dixi :  ut  excepisti,  demsisti  unam  litteram 
265     nirni8  quidem  h{c  tru/n/cu/s/  lentus.     St.  pergin  male 

loqui,  mulier,  mihi? 

2668     As.  quid  tibi  ego  male  dico  ?    St.  quia  e^m  me  truncuro 
lentum  nominas. 

Sacerdos'  citation  of  vs.  262. 

4.  Verse  262  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  grammarians, 
and  Sacerdos  (ca.  275-300  A.  D.)   cited  the  three  first  words, 
along  with  innocent  instances  of  arrecti  and  testes,  as  an  ex- 

"This   makes   it   clear   why,    later   on    (vs.    325),    Astaphium    called 
Diniarchus  her  abomination  (odium). 
•See  correction  of  text  in  §12  sq. 

/Correction  of  vsi  264  in§  §15-16;  of  vs.  265-266  in  §17. 
'Note  the  change  to  iambic  rhythm  and  see  Lindsay's  note  ad  loc. 


158  University -of  Texas  Bulletin 

ample  of  aeschrologia:  "est  verborum  turpitude,  non  intellectus, 
"comprime9  sis  iram"  (Keil,  GL.  VI,  453,  19)  ....  per  cacem- 
phaton,  ut  est  illud  Plautinum  "comprime  sis  iram";  nam 
rem  turpem  sonat  utpote  a  meretricis  ancilla  dicta  oratio"  (ib. 
461,  25).  That  comprime  was  the  ugly  word  in  this  citation  is 
generally  assumed  but,  if  we  note  Horace,  8.  1,  2,  71,  Sacerdos 
may  just  as  well  have  had  iram  in  his  mind.  Or  the  abbreviated 
citation  bears  the  character  of  the  whole  line  and  the  alleged 
ugliness  really  lies  further  on  in  the  retort  of  Stratulax,  where- 
in even  the  pale  word  solita,  if  the  least  intoned  in  utterance, 
was  suggestive  of  lewdness;  while  the  words  meam  ....  com- 
prime are,  as  we  shall  have  to  see  (§13),  highly  indecent. 

Error  in  text  and  current  interpretation  of  vs.  262 

5.  It  is  clear  from  the  language  of  vs.  264  that  the  equivoque 
in  vs.  262  consisted  in  using  two  words  reasonably  identical  in 
sound,  the  one  of  which  contained  a  letter  less  than  the  other. 
Accordingly,  iram  has  been  spelt  as  /e/iram  (ei=e,  or  close  ei) 
and  (m)eam  altered  to  e/r/an.     To  me  the  words  eram  corn- 
prime,  as  addressed  to  Astaphium,  seem  worse  than  pointless, 
however  Plautine  aliquem  comprime,  spoken  of  master  and  man 
(but  not  conversely),  would  have  seemed  (v.  exx.  ap.  Thes.  LL. 
Ill,  2159,  66  sq.).    To  the  discarded  mistress  of  Diniarchus  (see 
his  boast  in  vs.  94,  cum  ea  quoque  etiam  mihi  fuit  commercium) 
earn  comprime  (quam  solita' s)  would  have  point,  if  referring  to 
a  baubon    (cf.   Meister,  Herond.   6,   19   and  p.   859) ;  and  the 
grossly  insulting  meam  comprime    (§13)    is  a  retort  of  great 
point;  but  a  reference  in  earn  to  Phronesium,  Astaphium's  mis- 
tress,  seems  quite   absurd.     Even  the   converse  taunt  against 
Phronesium  would  be  excluded,  for  that  meretrix  was  other- 
wise fully  engaged. 

Harking  back  to  §5 

6.  At  a  Plautine  play,  when  an  ancilla  meretricis  had  sum- 
moned to  the  door  a  surly  old  ostiarius,  the  audience  undoubt- 

'Ms.  reprime,  which  may  be  right,  §12. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          159 

edly  sat  expectant  of  phallic  play.  But  in  our  scene  the  comic 
poet  attains  to  uproarious  mirth  by  letting  the  ostiarius  repulse — • 
and  that  with  phallic  gesticulation— the  advances  of  the  ancilla 
meretricis.  To  Astaphium  it  was  most  important  to  get  past 
the  ostiarius,  Stratulax,  in  hopes  of  effecting  a  rencounter  with 
Strabax,  his  young  master,  to  whom  the  old  servant  played  as 
it  were  the  part  of  chaperon.  To  secure  her  end  she  was  ready 
to  make  Stratulax  any  advances.  To  the  audience,  her  discom- 
fiture must  have  afforded  a  situation  very  rare  in  the  nea 
(kaine)  or  in  life,  one  of  the  inverted  situations  that  overwhelm 
with  surprise  and  produce  boisterous  glee. 

The  control-scene,  Truculent  us,  III,  ii 

7.  The  proof  that  our  scene  has  the  inverted  situation  just 
described  is  furnished  later  on  by  a  contra-scene  (III,  ii),  in 
which    Stratulax   cuts   the   usual   figure   by   beginning  to   ogle 
Astaphium.    By  a  review  of  the  counterscene  we  shall  put  our- 
selves into  a  position  to  understand  the  original  scene  and  shall 
learn  how  to  correct  its  text  where  the  actors  and  grammarians 
went  astray.     Be  it  here  remembered  that  our  play  owes  its 
name  of  Truculently  to  the  violent  character  of  Stratulax  (§26)  ; 
and  entirely  owes  its  individuality  to  his  two  appearances  upon 
the  stage.     In  his  first  appearance  he  shares  in  a  dialogue  of 
Jbut  66  lines;  in  his  second,  of  but  33.10     We  are  accordingly 
justified  in  expecting  to  find  these  brief  scenes  crammed  full  of 
significance  and  overflowing  with  verbal  quip. 

Analysis  of  the  contrascene 

8.  In  the  counterscene,  in  his  very  first  remark  to  Asta- 
phium  (673),  Stratulax  disavows  his  former  fierceness;  in  the 
next  (675),  he  offers  to  kiss  her;  next,11  he  professes  an  entire 
change  of  character, 

"It  is  very  curious — but  perhaps  not  significant — that,  in  the  P  Mss. 
of  Plautus,  these  scenes,  exclusive  of  the  sceneheads,  would  have  filled, 
the  one  precisely  two  pages,  the  other  an  even  page  of  the  manuscript. 

"Cf.  also,  673  nimio  minus  saeuos  iam  sum,  Astaphium,  quam  fui, 
674  iam  non  sum  tru/n/cu/s/  lentus:  noli  metuere. 


160  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

677  nouos  omnis  mores  habeo,  uete-res  perdidi. 

678  uel   amare  possum   uel   iam   scortum   ducere. 

In  vs.  678  we  must  attach  every  importance  to  the  words 
possum  and  iam,  especially  as,  in  her  answer,  Astaphium  re- 
mains a  little  unconvinced, 

679  lepide  mecastor  nuntias :  sed  die  mihi 

680  haben[t]  —  ?     St.  paxillum12  te  fortasse  dicere? 

That  in  680  Astaphium  hesitated  to  complete  her  outrageous 
question,  designed  to  probe  the  new  powers  alleged  by  Stratu- 
lax  in  678,  is  most  likely,  though  it  is  possible  that  here,  as  in 
the  corresponding  verse  of  the  original  scene  (262),  Stratulax 
rudely  interrupted.  The  motive  of  his  interruption  would 
have  been  to  counter,  by  means  of  te  fortasse  dicere?,  on  As- 
taphium's  corrective  dixi  in  vs.  264.  Note  Astaphium 's  reply 

"For  paxillum  te  the  Mss.  read  parasitumet.  The  sense  of  paxillum  is 
the  sense  of  palus  as  cited  in  §2,  fn.  Schoell  first  corrected  (editio  maior, 
p.  108)  to  peculium  te;  afterwards  (ed.  minor  VII,  p.  xiii)  to  part  *i 
tumet,  wherein  si  is  bad  Latin.  Either  correction  is  tantamount  in 
sense  to  paxillum,  as  the  whole  point  of  the  lines  is  to  render  proof 
that  Stratulax  has  passed  out  of  his  amorous  lentitude  (§9).  Palaeo- 
graphically,  parasitum  would  easily  arise  from  paxillum  (or  even 
pasillum,  cf.  the  spellings  of  pauxillum  in  §  9  fn.),  spelt  pacsilum  as, 
in  Vergil  G.  4,  199,  nee  sib'.ifi  is  written  for  nexibus  (see  Havet,  Manuel 
de  Critique  Verbale,  §1061).  With  the  riddlesome  pacsilum  before  his 
eyes,  the  scribe  guessed  par/a/situm.  Cf.  on  C/R  Persa,  594,  where 
ILLEDORTUS  stands  in  A  for  ille  doctus;  Merc.  59,  where  conuirium 
in  the  P  Mss. — B's  coniurium,  in  spite  of  a  recent  mistaken  defense, 
is  worthless — is  for  conuicium;  True.  104,  where  B  reads  fector'  for 
fartor(es).  This  change  from  C  to  R  may  have  gone  through  P  (cf. 
Havet,  op.  cit.  §§607,  609). — Besides  paxillum  te  a  number  of  other 
good  ductus  emendations  for  parasitumet  present  themselves:  (1) 
pruritum  te.  See  usage  of  prurio  and  perprurisco  in  the  closing  scene 
of  the  Stichus;  on  the  a/u  confusion  in  Caroline  minuscules,  Alcuin 
as  cited  by  Lindsay,  Latin  Textual  Emendation  pp.  83-84;  Havet,  §6; 
for  s/r  cf.  Cure.  318,  Os  amarum  for  Gramarum;  Mo.  28,  semet  for 
rem  et.  Havet  (621)  pronounces  this  a  characteristic  confusion.  (2) 
paralysin  te  (or  liaben:  paralysis  tenet  te?),  with  paralysis  used  as  in 
Petronius,  §  129  sq.  We  further  have,  scanning  hdb&n,  (3)  pars  tumet 
/mi,  t/e;  (4)  pdrastatam  te  (p.='testiculum') ;  (5)  seram  tume/ntG/ 
t/e/  (sera  as  in  §  2);  (6)  pdresis  tenet  me  te  (for  paresis,  cf.  parctois 
,  .  melesi,  Anth.  Pal.  V,  55,  a  century  before  Plautus. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          161 

681  intellexisti  lepide  quid  ego  dicerem, 

("what  I  was  to  say,  meant  to  say,"  cf.  §  16).  Whichever  cor- 
rection we  accept  for  parasitumet  the  whole  context  insists  on 
the  fact  of  Stratulax's  renewed  or  released  virility. 

Stratulax'  new-won  urbanity;  caullator=paxilli  lator 

9.  In  his  next  speech,  countering  Astaphium's  taunt  of  rus- 
ticity (rus  merum,  269),  Stratulax  asserts  his  new-won  urban- 
ity (and  wit). 

682  St.  heus  tu,  iam  postquam  in  urbem  crebro  commeo 

683  dicax  sum  factus:  iam  sum  cau[il]  lator  probus. 

684  As.  quid  id  est,  amabo?  istaec  ridicularia. 

685  cauillationes  uis,  opinor,  dicere/?/.13 

Here  the  equivoque  lies  in  caullatorf  long  since  correctly  ex- 
plained as  a  humorous  formation  based  on  caulis/caula 
(colis/cola,  cf.  colicula)  "mentula,"  so  that  caullatorl*=quaisi 
"mentulatus. "  This  definition  is  certified  by  the  hitherto  mis- 
understood, or  only  half-understood,  retort  in 

686  St.  ita,  ut  pa[u]xillum  differt  a  cauillibus 

Well,  about  as  a — peg  differs  from  a  ga-g-gabbage. 
Here  paxillum15  not  only  vindicates  paxillum  in  680,  but  serves 
as  a  throwback  to  the  se(r)ra  or  pessulus  of  the  original  scene 
(§§  2  sq.). 

687  As.  sejquere  intro  amabo,  mea  uoluptas[t].    St.  tene  hoc 
tibi! 

Here  hoc  is  precisely  the  paxillum  of  vs.  686. 

"Countering  te  fortasse  dicer ef  in  680. 

"Probably  not  a  genuine  compound  cauli-lator  (i.  e.  "paxilli  lator"), 
thugh  peculator  is,  I  take  it,  due  to  symphysis,  with  haplology,  of 
pecw[H]  lator. 

"The  copyists  of  P  and  the  P  precursors  pronounced  pauxillum  as 
paxillum;  cf.  the  glosses  paxillum  mensura  est  modica  uel  palus  qui 
in  pariete  figitur;  pasillum  parvum.  It  follows  that  genuine  .paxillumr 
especially  when  contiguous  to  differt  (cf.  paulum  differt,  etc.),  might 
contrariwise  be  transcribed  pauxillum.  For  the  neuter  form  of  the 
glossic  word  note  that  Varro  ap.  Nonium  219,  19  uses  palum. 


162  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

The  quip  on  (ar)rabo 

10.  Stratulax  continues: 

688  rabonem  habeto,  uti  mecum  hanc  noctem  sies. 

689  As.  peril,  "rabonem,"  quam  esse  dicam  hanc  beluam? 

690  quin   tu   arrabonem   dicis[t]  1       St.    "ar"   facio   lucri, 
ut  Praenestinis  "conea"  est  ciconia. 

The  ellipsis  (procope)  of  ar  is  meant  to  counter  on  Astaphium's 
quip  on  double  rr  in  vs.  264  (§§  15-16). 

Return  to  fhe  original  scene  (II,  ii) 

11.  So  much  for  the  phallic  play  and  Stratulax'  renewed 
virility   in   the   counterscene.     Let  us   return   to   the   original 
scene,  where  Stratulax  has  come  to  the  door,  armed  (ex  hypo- 
thesi)   with  the  sera  (§  2).     He  has  scorned  Astaphium's  ad- 
vances, which  were  verbally  timid  and,  as  she  always  seems, 
decent,  perhaps  even  restrained,  in  gesticulation.     But  what- 
ever she  said  he  kept  retorting,  by  way  of  jawing  and  sawing, 
till  she  cried  out 

262     reprime  (Sacerdos)  sis  iram,  etc. — corrected 

12.  The  words  sis  iram   (A  reads  COMPRIMESISIRAM) 
are   profoundly,    however   simply,    corrupt,    even   though   they 
seem  to  make  an  obvious  and  quite  appropriate  sense.    But  it  is 
hard  to  see — a  point,  it  would  seem,  that  the  editors  have  never 
even  raised — how,  instead  of  SISIRAM  the  P  Mss.  came  to 
read  spero  (Spero).     As  regards  reprime  or  comprime,  I  had 
.almost  as  lief  retain  the  one  as  the  other,  but  incline  to  reprime 
(1)    because  reprime  seems  liable  to  assimilation  to  the  com- 
prime of  the  retort;  and  (2)  because  the  Greek  original,  as  will 
;appear  later  (§  13),  seems  to  have  had  anische  retorted  by  an- 
\techou.     For  spero  I  read  serram="  obiurgationem, "  as  found 
In  the  locution  scrram  ducere   (Varro,  r.  r.  3,  6,  1,  Fircellius, 
qui — tecum  duceret  serram :  Sat.  Menipp,  329,  cum  portitore  ser- 
ram  duxe).     In  the  P  precursors,  thanks  to  a  copyist's  partial 
isolation  of  se  as  a  word,  serram  would  have  been  transcribed 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          163 

.as  seprd,16   and   afterwards  made  into   the  word  spero.17     In 
the    A    and    Sacerdos'    tradition,    SISIRAM    originated    from 


C 

SER(R)AM,  glossed  asJ  \\  or  quite  independently,  the 

1  >eram  j 

copyists,  to  whom  se(r)ram  was  a  hopeless  riddle,  got  it  down 
with  dittography  as  SISIRAM.  17a  It  is  to  the  reading  siram  (for 
serram)  in  the  grammatical  tradition  prior  to  Sacerdos  that  we 
owe  the  gloss  sira,  saura,18  to\aidoion-  though  seira,  "rope"  may, 
like  sclioimon  (§  17),  have  be-en  derisively  used  for  "mentula." 


18On  P/R  (see  also  §  8  fn.;  cf.  Lindsay,  TE.  p.  87;  Havet,  1.  c.  §  609 
(§§582,  808).  For  inscriptional  confusion  of  P/R  see  Schneider,  dial, 
lat.  prise,  p.  129. 

17On  o  for  a  in  the  Truculentus  Mss.  see  e.  g.  the  transcriptions  of 
the  name  of  Stratophanes  in  §22,  below.  In  the  scenehead  of  Trinummus 
II,  ii  A  reads  FILTA  for  PHILTO.  On  — a  and  — o  cf.  also  cu.ro/cura 
in  Horace,  C.  1,  38,  6.  In  the  inversion  of  seprd  to  spero  the  inter- 
changeability  of  P  with  E  may  have  played  a  part,  cf.  Mo.  967,  where 
\_a~\melius  replaces  amplius  in  the  P  Mss.;  and  see  'AJPh.  31,  84 

"aThere  is  no  limit  to  the  palaeographic  interchangeability  of  E  with 
I.  What  Varro  remarks  (/.  I.  9,  §  105  sq.)  about  the  liability  of  the 
copyists  to  confound  the  terminations  E  and  I  applies  equally  well 
to  the  transcription  of  E  and  I  in  any  rare  or  recondite  word;  and 
editors  who  correct  Varro's  lavarc/i  (in  True.  323)  to  lavere  have 
simply  never  read  their  Varro.  Dittography  in  manuscripts  is  as  little 
subject  to  limitation  as  the  E/I  shift.  Thus  in  True.  380  A  reads 
DUMUIUIXI  for  dum  uixi;  and  in  257  the  P  Mss.  read  tetibi  for  tibi. 
For  dittography  in  inscriptions,  scarcely  less  common  than  in  manu- 
scripts, see  no's  2  and  72  in  Diehl's  Altlateinische  Inschriften. 

"On  saura  "lizard,"  whence  "mentula,"  see  Heraeus  in  Archiv.  12, 
266.  But  Heraeus  goes  too  far  in  explaining  purpurilla  as  anything 
but  a  scribes'  fault  (P/T)  for  turturilla;  cf.  for  P/T  Mo.  842,  where  B 
reads  trctium  for  pretium;  8.  87,  MULPA  (in  A)  for  multa;  further 
examples  in  AJPh.  31,  84.  That  turturilla  should  mean  "the  place  of 
the  Dovies"  would  seem  easy  enough  if  scholars  had  but  bethought 
them  of  the  Greek  usage  of  hoi  ichthus  ("the  fishes"),  hoi  drnithes 
and  td  drnea  ("the  birds")  for  the  fish  and  bird  stalls  in  the  markets; 
cf.  Catullus,  55,  4,  where  in  omnibus  libellis=apud  omnes  librarios. 
On  turtur  cf.  Buecheler  in  'Archiv,  2,  116,  where  note  is  made  of  the 
continuous  expurgation  to  which  modern  lexica  have  been  subject. 
Obscenities  like  "Duke,"  which  recently  fell  under  my  eye,  have  next 
to  no  chance  of  ever  being  recorded,  though  the  example  represents 
a  class. 


164  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Further  corrections  of  vs.  262 

13.  To  Astaphium's  hesitant  reprime  serram  Stratulax,  per- 
haps with  rude  interruption,  retorted 

262  meam  quidem  hercle  tu,  quae  solita's,  comprime. 
Here  the  P  reading  meiam  (sc.  seram,  i.  e.  "mentulam")  is 
right.  The  indecency  of  the  retort  is  somewhat  softened  by  the 
euphemistic  ellipsis  with  meam,19  and  the  insult  in  quae  solita's, 
quasi  "thou  expert  quean,"  is  likewise  euphemistic.  In  the 
Greek  original  meam  comprime  may  well  have  been  represented 
by  toud'  antechou,  a  locution  actually  found  in  this  sense,  ellip- 
sis and  all,  in  Aristophanes'  Ach.  1120.  I  conjecture  also  that 
toud'  antechou,  retorts,  in  the  original  Greek,  Astaphium's 
anische(s)  stulon  (§  31). 

Stratulax'  retort  in  vs.  263 

14.  263,  inpudens  quae  per  ridiculum  rustico  suades  stuprum. 
Here  nothing  need  be  said  save  that  stuprum  quite  adequately 
corresponds   to    the    interpretation    already    given    to    reprime 
se(r)ra)m  (§  13). 

Correction  of  vs.  264,  the  last  half 

15.  This  verse  is  extremely  corrupt.     It  goes  as  follows: 

A    [As.]    IRAMMXItfUTDECEPISTIDEMSISTIUNAMLIT- 

TERAM 

B  iram  dixi  ut  esse  cepisti  sidem  sistun  alteram 

CD  iram  dixi  ut  esse  cepisti  fidem  si  est  una  altera. 

After  noting  that  in  A  decepisti  may  owe  its  de-  for  ex-  to  antici- 
pation from  demsisti,  I  follow  Lindsay  and  others  in  explaining 
P's  esse  as  due  to  a  ligature  writing  of  ex-  confounded  with  the 
ligature  for  et  (cf.  e.  g.  Havet  1.  c.  §721),  and  then  for  esse. 
But,  to  proceed  curtly,  I  would  read  as  follows  the  last  half  of  vs. 

"The  A  reading  earn  perhaps  suggests  Tianc  in  Ovid,  Am.  3,  7,  73;  ista 
in  Priapea  56,  3;  earn  in  Petronius  132,  7;  ilia,  i&.  11.  Friedrich  ad 
Catull.  "04,  145  has  a  long  list  of  similar  indefinites  such  as  aliquid,  a 
thoroughly  modern  idiom. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          165 

264     excepsti  unam  /r/20  litte-ram 

From  glossal  interpretations  of  excepsti  arose  excepisti  and 
[si]  demsisti. 

Correction  of  vs.  264;.  the  first  half 

16.     This  leaves  us  in  A  for  the  first  half  of  our  line 

264    /As./  IRAMDIXLSZ7T 

where  for  SUT  Loewe  thought  that  he  saw  UTTE.  As  regards 
sut,  if  we  consider  the  lacerations  indicated  in  Studemund's 
apograph,  we  might  perhaps  restore  STIL  (or  -T,  miswritten 
or  misread  for  original  -L;  TI  is  for  V,  §  25).  Before  excepsti 
the  AP  precursors  had,  I  surmise,  STRATILAX,  but  the  proper 
name  in  the  text  had  been  reduced  by  skipping  and  haplogra- 
phy  to  S  [TRA]  TIL  [AX]  EXCEPSTI.  Accordingly,  inserting 
duxe  after  the  Varro  citation  of  §  12,  I  thus  restore  the  first 
half  of  the  verse : 

264  As.  /s/er(r)am21  /duxe/  dix/e/i,  Stratilax. 
Here  Astaphium,  harking  back  to  vs.  262,  completes,  with  some 
repetition,  her  interrupted  sentence,  reprime  serram — ,21  in  the 
form  serram  duxe.  For  the  construction  of  reprime  .  .  duxe 
cf.  Ennius'  Ann.  294,  audere  (i.  q.  audaciam)  repressit.  It 
Cicero  could  write  reprimere  susceptam  obiurgationem  we  need 
not  question  reprime  serram  in  Plautus.  And  as  Plautus  does 
say  comprime  orationem  (uocem)  we  may  not,  on  principle, 
exclude  from  his  text  comprime  orationem  facere,  or  even  com- 
prime uociferari.  It  would  be  hypercritical,  because  of  the 
tense  of  dixi  (see  on  dioerem  §8),  to  object  that  as  Astaphium 
repeats  only  serram  she  may  not  complete  her  interrupted 
phrase  by  adding  duxe.  Indeed,  her  correction  must  also  look 


20The  inserted  r  might  be  defended  by  the  a  of  alteram  in  CD.  On 
a/r  cf.  Most.  363,  where  the  P  Mss.  have  aedit  for  redit;  see  also  Havet, 
1.  c.  §  618.  My  interpretation  of  the  passage  in  no  wise  depends  on  the 
actual  insertion  of  this  r,  but  it  seems  to  me  to  supply  a  basis  later  on 
for  the  procope  of  ar  in  'rafto  (vs.  689,  §10). 

21The  extra  si  in  B's  sldem  (§  15)  is  not  likely  to  have  come  from 
ser(r)am  glossed  as  siram.  It  is  more  likely  to  have  got  in  from  the 
preceding  St(ratilax),  reduced  somewhere  in  the  text  transmission  to 
a  no ta  personae  (§24). 


166  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

to  Stratulax'  meam  /seram/,  and  she  had  to  reiterate  serram 
with  a  sharp  double  r  to  bring  out  the  trick  she  had  put  upon 
the  rustic  (§  2,  fn.)  in  using  the  word  serr\a — and  here  Plautus 
added  a  quip  the  more  to  his  original — which  Stratulax  was 
sure  to  understand  of  the  ser(r)a22  in  his  hand.  As  regards  the 
tense  of  reprime  duxe,  it  is  perhaps  adequately  accounted  for  by 
a  negative  imperative  turn  like  noli  devellisse  (Poen.  872)  ;  but 
it  may  be  remarked  that  any  action  must  be  in  progress  before 
it  can  be  made  to  cease.  Accordingly,  the  active  turn  reprime 
duxe  corresponds  to  the  passive  reprime  susceptam  orationem; 
cf.  desistat  (0.  0.  for  desiste)  combined  in  .an  elegiac  epitaph 
with  the  perfect  infinitive  sollicitasse  (Buecheler,  Carm.  Epigr,, 
1212,  13). 

On  tlie,  reading  truncum  lentum  in  (26 5-) 266 

17.  It  remains  to  explain  vss.  265-266,  and  especially  the 
curious  reading  truncum  lentum  (266),  strongly  confirmed  by 
the  quips  with  the  paxillum  in  the  counterscene  (§  9).  Asta- 
phiuna  went  on,  after  excepsti  unam  /r/  litteram,  with 

265  nimis  quidem  h!c  tru/n/cu/s/  lentus[t].  St.  pergin 
male  loqui,  mulier,  mihifes]  ?23 

266.  As.  quid  tibi  ego  maledico?  St.  quia  enim  me  truncum 
lentum  nominas.24 

In  these  lines  we  have  the  advance  provocation  for  the  play 
with  the  paxillum  in  the  counterscene  (§  9),  where  Ussing 
rightly — as  Lindsay  cautiously  admits — read  vs.  674  as  iam 
non  sum  tru/n/cu/s/  lentus,  etc.  (§  8  fn.).  For  the  interpre- 
tation of  truncum  lentum  in  266  Leo  made  in  his  edition  the 
apposite  reference  to  truncus  m^rs  iacui  in  Ovid,  Am.  3,  7, 


etymology  of  serra  "saw"  has  not  been  settled.  The  word  is 
related  with  the  root  s(iv)er  in  sermo,  and  the  tool  was  named  from 
its  grating  buzzing  humming.  The  double  r,  if  not  simply  hypocoristic, 
will  come  from  a  rootstage  ser-s  (broken  reduplication).  Or  the  primate 
was  reduplicated  sesera,  .whence  ser(e)ra,  with  syncope  of  the  penulti- 
mate vowel. 

2SThis  es  of  the  P  Mss.  represents  the  illcopied  nota  As.  of  vs.  266. 

"In  the  P  Mss.  nomines.  Is  -es  a  second  copying  of  the  marginal 
word  es  at  the  end  of  265? 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          167 

15  ;25  but  for  lentus  express  reference  should  also  be  made  to 
Priapea,  83,  33  /mentula/  angue  lentior  (cf.  schoinwn  "rope" 
used  in  Aristophanes,  Vesp.  1342  for  a  "mentula  lenta").  Also 
cf.  lentae  salices  in  Petronius,  §  132,  11.  In  the  counter  situa- 
tion of  True.  Ill,  ii  (§  7)  all  the  insistence  is  on  Stratulax' 
renewed  virility,  and  there  the  action  is  suited  to  the  word  by 
the  obvious  horseplay  with  the  paxillum.  In  the  first  scene 
there  was  doubtless  a  similar  inverted  action.  In  vs.  262,  with 
the  words  metim  comprime,  Stratulax  had  reached  out  to  Asta- 
phium  the  sera  (doorbar)  in  his  hand,  and  she  pronounced  it 
(vs.  265)  a  truncus  lentus  (i.  e.,  ou  tetulomenos;  cf.  eu  tetulom- 
enon  hoplon,  Anth.  Plan.  242),  that  is  the  sera — as  opposed  to  the 
ferrea  sera  of  Persa  572 — was  without  a  ferule  and  relatively 
flexible.  So  in  the  ejaculation  and  retort  of  vss.  265-266  we 
must  read,  with  proper  insertions, 

265  As.  nimis .  quidem  hjc  tru/n/cu/s/  lentus.     St.™  pergin 
male  loqui,  mulier,  mihi? 

266  As.  quid  tibi  ego  maledico?    St.  quia  enim  me  truncum 
lentum  nominas.27 

*In  connection  with  Truculentus  II,  ii,  which  but  harps  on  Stratulax' 
amorous  lentitude,  the  whole  of  Am.  3,  7  should  be  read.  Petronius 
also  deals  with  the  same  situation  in  §127  sq. 

26This  nota  personae  was  caught  up  in  the  text.  A  reads  truculentust ; 
the  P  Mss.  truculentus.  Cf.  also  §  24. 

27The  A  reading  is  truncum  lentum.  Goetz  and  Schoell  (ed.  Min.  vii, 
p.  x)  scorn  it  and  jeer  at  its  defenders.  After  Buecheler,  they  hold 
that  truncum  Ionium,  which  does  in  fact  fall  on  the  top  line  of  a  page 
in  A,  is  due  to  the  copyist's  taking  over  from  the  pagehead  the  scroll- 
writing  of  the  title  line  TRU'CU— which  does  not  altogether  account 
for  the  -m  of  truncum.  Granting  that  the  title  line  belonging  to  the 
rubric  was  written  before  the  text,  it  would  still  seem  far  from  credible 
that  the  copyist  pronounced,  and  pronouncing  miscopied,  it  as  TRUNCU. 
It  seems  highly  credible  on  the  other  hand  that,  if  the  original 
Astaphium  said  in  vs.  265  nimis  quidem  hie  truncus  lentus,  sub- 
sequent actors  or  readers,  after  final  s  began  to  make  position, 
should  have  emended,  particularly  under  the  spell  of  the  name  of  the 
play,  to  the  traditional  tru  \_n~\culentus.  Without  going  so  far  back, 
however,  the  copyist  of  the  A  precursor,  with  the  title  Truculentus  in 
mind,  <  might  have  transcribed  TRVNCVS  as  TRVCVS/TRVCV(S);  or 
in  transcribing  VN  he  might  have  skipped  to  the  V  part  of  N. 


168  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Summary  of  the  preceding  argument 

18.  So  far  the  following  points  have  been  made : 

(1)  That  for  the  phallic  play  of  Rudens  II,  iv,  the  .actor 
availed   himself    of   the    doorbar    or   doorpeg    (sera   or 

patibidum:  or  pessulus). 

(2)  That  in  Truculent  us  II,  ii,  in  the  like  situation  be- 
tween an  ostiarius  (Stratulax)  and  an  ancilla  meretricis 
(Astaphium),  like  (or  here  inverted)  phallic  play  with 
the  sera  or  pessulus  was  to  be  expected. 

(3)  That  in  the  contrascene  of  the  Truculentus  (III,  ii), 
phallic  play  with  the  paxillum  (el  §  9,  vs.  686)  is  cer- 
tainly  indicated;   while   the   whole  point  of  the  scene 
turns  upon  Stratulax'  amorous  revivification. 

After  these  points  made  it  has  been  argued 

(4)  That  amorous  lentitude  on  the  part  of  The  Truculent 
is  the  dominant  note  of  the  first  scene  between  Stratulax 
and  Astaphium;  the  dramatic  business  being  managed 
with  a  serra  or  patibulum,  which  Astaphium  derisively 
•called  a  truncus  lentus. 

The  Name  Stratulax 

19.  We  are  now  in  a  position  to  begin  the  discussion  of  the 
name  S[TRA]TIL[AX]    as  restored  to  the  text  in  §  16;  and 
to  see  if  it  lends  confirmation  to  the  dramatic  play  with  the 
sew,  (truncus)  or  pessulus  (paxillum>). 

Evidence  for  the  name  Stratulax  (P  Mss.,  Stratilax) 

20.  In  spite  of  "authoritative"  denials  to  the  contrary,  if 
duly  weighed,  the  evidence  for  the  nomen  personae  Stratilax — 
rightly  retained    (pace  Lindsay)    by  Goetz  and  Schoell — is  as 
strong  as  any  evidence  for  a  nota  can  be  in  P.  Nor,  if  the  name 
ever  occurred  in  the  dialogue — as  in  fact  I  restore  it  in  vs. 
264 — 'could  the  P  evidence  be  doubted.    The  fact  that  in  A  the 
nomen  is  solely  Truculentus  does  not  constitute  valid  counter 
evidence  because,  in  view  of  the  name  of  the  play,  which  was 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          169 

current  in  the  time  of  Cicero  (de  Amic.  §  50)  and  Varro 
(1.  I.  vii,  70),  the  designation  of  Stratulax  as  truculentus  ser- 
uos  may  have  yielded  to  Truculentus,  seruos.  Just  so  in  P 
the  name  of  Pseudulus  gives  place  in  one  scene  head  to  Seruos 
ebrius  (cf.  Lindsay,  Ancient  Editions  of  Plautus,  p.  96s). 

>/ 
The  nomina  peronarum  in  P 

21.  The  nomina  personarum  of  the  Truculentus  include,  be- 
sides Stratilax }  Stmtophanes  and  Strabax.  This  made  the  dis- 
position of  the  abbreviated  notae  personarum  difficult,  and  the 
name  Stratilax  has  been  explained  away  as  a  mere  misreading 
for  Strauax'28  (u,  i.  e.  v,  for  6).  But  this  explanation  falls 
short  for  STRATILAX  by  one  straight-shank  letter  (T  I  L;  on 
VjTI  see  §  25).  In  Act  III,  sc.  i,  Strabax  and  Astaphium  hold 
a  dialogue  and  in  C  the  nomina  personarum  stand 

STRATILAX29  (D3  STRATI  LAX)  SERVUS  ANCILLA 
Just  22  lines  off  the  nomina  in  sc.  ii  occur  as 

ASTAPHIUM  SERVUS  ANCILLA30 

In  B  the  nomina  for  Act  II,  sc.  i,  are  Stitattiex  RUSTICUS31 
ANCILLA,  preceded  at  the  end  of  the  previous  scene  by  Tru- 
culentus Astaphium.  These  facts  signify  that  in  the  P  Mss.  the 
scenehead  of  Act  II,  sc.  ii,  had  been  transposed  forward  and 
put  over  sc.  i.  Now  as  the  P  precursor  designated  by  Lindsay 
as  PA  had  19  lines  per  page  in  the  Epidicus,  20  in  the  Casina 


"We  might  almost  as  well,  where  the  nomen  Astaphium  replaces 
Stratophanes  (§§  22-23),  set  that  confusion  down. solely  to  a  mistaken 
ductus  transcription. 

"For  Stratul-ax,  due  to  the  separation  of  STRATV,  Latinized  to 
strati;  cf.  the  misdivisions  of  the  name  Stratophanes  in  §  22  fn. 

«°Por  STRAT.  SERVUS  ASTAPHIUM  ANCILLA.  See  the  scenehead 
of  II,  vii  (§22),  where  in  C  the  name  of  Astaphium  has  replaced  the 
name  Stratophanes. 

S1ln  the  Italic  recension  (D3P)  the  nota  RUSTICUS  designates 
Strabax  in  the  scenehead  of  V,  i  (before  vs.  893).  But  rusticus  cer- 
tainly belonged  to  the  servus,  Stratilax  (cf.  the  text  of  vs.  263);  not 
to  the  adulescens,  Strabax.  In  vs.  246  Strabax  was  called  agrestis 
and  A  adds  rusticus,  by  taking  up  a  gloss  from  the  margin.  It  was 
from  some  such  gloss  that  the  epithet  Rusticus  was  taken  up  by  the 
Italic  recension  in  V,  i  as  a  noman  personae  for  Strabax. 


170  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

and  Rudens,  21  in  the  Mostellaria;  and  as  the  text  of  our  sc. 
i  filled  22  lines;:2  the  transposition  of  the  scene-head  practically 
covers  a  precise  page.  This  means  that  the  copyist's  or  rubri- 
cator's  eye,  after  a  period  of  diversion,  had  first  fallen  on  the 
wrong  leaf  of  his  original,  but  at  the  corresponding  horizontal 
level  of  the. opposite  leaf. 

The  not  a  Z •  confusion  of  nomina  personarum 

22.  In  Act  II,  sc.  ii,  the  only  other  scene  in  which  The  Tru- 
culent has  a  place,  F  (representing  the  Italic  recension)  has 
the  nomina  Stratilax  servus  Ascaphium  ancilla.  If  we  go  for- 
ward, however,  to  II  sc.  i  (vs.  210),  a  distance  (run-over  lines 
not  reckoned)  of  45  lines  (2X22+1),  we  find  in  B,  instead  of 
the  name  of  Astaphium,  a  most  unique  scenehead,  viz., 

n 

ZASTEAPHIVC.  VL 

Here  Z  is  the  Greek  letter  used  as  a  nota  personae  '(cf.  Dziatzko 
in  Fleck.  JBB.  127,  61)  ;  while  the  R,  so  far  as  I  can  learn,  has 

n 

not  been  in  the  least  explained.  Nor  has  VL  been  entirely 
explained.  There  lies  over  the  V  a  sprawling  minuscule  n  (or 
something  like  that),  or  an  inverted  omega,  and  the  L  is  most 
imperfect  in  its  horizontal  bar.  The  C  is  of  course  for  Canti- 
cum.  Later  on,  in  the  scenehead  of  II,  vii  (before  vs.  551), 
we  discover  the  secret  of  the  R.  There  the  soldier  Stratophanes, 
whose  name  is  certified  by  the  text,33  is  designated  in  B  as 


*2The  incomplete  line  quid  eum  ue[l]lit  (651)  was  due  to  the  mis- 
reading of  perrogo  in  650  as  /in/terrogo  (see  on  P/T  §  12  fn.).  Vss. 
650-651  are  in  the  "chopped  hay"  style: 

650  quaerit  patrem.   dico  esse  in  urbe.  perrogo    (with  entreaties  I 
ply  him) ; 

651  homo  cruminam  sibi  de  collo  detrahit. 

MVs.  500,  Stratophones   (Strata  phones) ;   503,  8tratvo  panes   (statio- 

1 

panes);  513,  Strata  panem;  929,  Staitophanes;  note  in  the  scenehead 
of  II,  vi  STATOPHANES  corrected  to  STRATOPHANES  (D3) ;  and 
in  the  scenehead  of  II,  vii  STATOPIMONES  (B),  with  St  corrected 
out  of  SA,  while  T(O)  and  P(I)  are  dittographic  (§12  fn.),  and 
M=PH,  cf.  PN  for  PH  in  ASTAPNIUM  (B,  II,  iii). 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          171 

ASTARC,  but  in  C  as  ASTAPHIUM34  .0.  (STAPHIUM,  D3). 
Now  if  we  count  down  our  list  of  Dramatis  Personae — of  no  Ms. 
authority,  but  arranged  correctly  in  the  order  of  appearance — 
the  6th  character  (reckoning  the  prologus  as  the  first)  is  the 
soldier,  Stratophanes.  The  riddlesome  Z  is  the  6th  character 
in  the  Greek  alphabet  and  designated,  as  usual,  the  6th  char- 
acter in  the  play:  cf.  Lindsay,  Captivi,  p.  91,  on  the  original 
Greek  notae  of  the  Trinummus,  where  the  character  of  Lysiteles, 
there  designated  by  Z,  appears  in  our  list  of  Dramatis  Personae 
in  the  5th  place.  But  we  know  that  in  the  Trinummus  the  old 
man  Philto  was  designated  out  of  order  by,  A  (for  A),  an  ar- 
rangement whereby  Lysiteles  becomes  the  6th  character.  Be 
it  added  for  the  stake  of  completeness  that  the  interfusion  of 
the  nomina  Astaphium  and  Stratophanes  in  the  nota  ZASTRA- 

n  _  n 

PHIVC.     VL  is  proved  by  VL,35  i.  e.  NVL,  a  miswriting  for 

MIL(ES). 

The  nomen  Stratilax  in  P 

23.     The  fossil  Z  in  the  scenehead  of  II,  i,  is  of  the  utmost 
significance,  for  it  proves  that  in  a  now  lost  precursor  of  B 


"It  is  not  certain  that  Astaphium  appears  in  this  scene  at  all.  Leo 
assigns  a  few  words  to  her,  and  Lindsay  follows  him,  but  with  the 
curious  omission  of  her  name  from  the  scenehead.  Goetz  and  Schoell 
give  her  no  place  in  the  scene,  but  assign  her  supposed  words  to  her 
mistress,  Phronesiiim. 

^Dziatzko,  l.s.c.,  explains  VL  as  a  substractive  numeral=XLV,  and 
the  number  of  verses  in  the  Canticum  is,  as  we  have  seen,  45.  Startling 
ae  this  coincidence  is,  it  seems  to  be  a  mere  accident,  even  when 
supported  by  the  scenehead  of  Trinummus  II,  ii  where,  after  the  last 
word  of  the  Canticum  of  II,  i  (58  verses  in  B)  B  adds  LX,  followed  by 
the  nomina  filto  lysiteles.  Now  it  is  at  II,  ii  of  the  Trinummus  that 
the  P  Mss.  begin  to  indicate  the  notae  personarum  by  the  (Greek) 
letter  A  (for  ^/\)  to  designate  Philto  and  Z  for  Lysiteles.  So  I  conclude 
that  the  LX  preceding  the  proper  names  in  the  scenehead  is  a  mis- 
writing  of  the  notae  L  and  Z  (both=Lysiteles).  For  X  miswritten 
tor  Z  cf.  True.  954,  where  the  P  Mss.  have  xonas  for  zonam.  Or 
LX=LV  (nota  for  Lysiteles). — I  find  subsequently  that  Lindsay  has 
given  much  the  same  explanation  of  LX.  Nor  does  he  accept  Dziatzkb's 

n 
explanation  of  VL.     Anc.  Edit.   (p.  83). 


12— 


172  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

certain  information  about  the  Dramatis  Personae  of  the  Tru- 
culentus  was  contained,  just  as  in  the  Trinummus  there  is  a 
record  of  the  original  Greek  alphabetic  notae.  Whatever  was 
the  source  of  the  Z  was  also  the  source  of  the  nomen  personae 
Stratilax  (Strati  lax  in  D3  accounts  for  B's  Stratilex).  This 
information  will  at  least  have  consisted  partly  in  abbrevia- 
tions, cf.  B's  ASTARC— C=Canticum— for  STRAT.,  con- 
founded with  ASTAP.  in  II,  vii.  It  is  clear  that  the  n&tae  for 
Strabax  Stratulax  Stratophanes  and  even  Astaphium  were  all 
subject  to  concurrence  and  confusion,  which  accounts,  among 
other  things,  for  the  elevation  of  the  epithet  Truculentus  to  a 
role-name;  cf.  Rusticus  (D3  and  F)  for  Strabax  in  Act  V, 
Strabax'  second  and  last  appearance.  But  Stratulax  was  also 
Rusticus  (cf.  §  22  and  vs.  262),  which  further  accounts  for  the 
intrusion  of  the  nomen  Stratilax  Rusticus  at  Strabax'  first  ap- 
pearance (III,  i).  For  the  confusion  of  the  notae  for  Strato- 
phanes and  Astaphium  some  marked  and  specific  unclearness 
in  the  manuscript  source  for  the  Greek  notae  must  be  assumed. 

Tlie  nota  St.  for  Stratulax 

24.  It  is  worth  noting1,  perhaps,  that  in  III,  ii,  the  scene  of 
Stratulax'  second  and  last  appearance,  the  readings  uoluptasi 
(vs.  687)   and  didst   (690)   may  stand  for  uolupta/s/  St.  and 
dici/s/  St.;  cf.  also  on  tru/n/cu/s/  lentus  St.,  §  17.     Leo  found 
in  these  extra  t's  the  nota  for  Tr.,  and  included  in  his  evidence 
haben[t]    (vs.  680),  where  the  error  is  of  quite  another  sort;  cf. 
dan\t]  in  vs.  373;  As.  671   (correctly  explained  by  Havet,  1.  c. 
§  897)  ;  es[t]  in  vs.  586. 

The  name  Stratulax  in  Cicero 

25.  But  it  now  remains  to   discuss    (1)    the   connection  of 
Cicero's  Antony  epithet  of  Stratillax  (so  the  Ms.,  but  il  is  mis- 
written  for  u,  se-e  §  16,  and  cf .  Lindsay,  TE.  p.  87 ;  Poe'n.  314, 
PLELLI  in  A  for  pleni)  •  and  (2)  the  quips  suggested  by  the 
telltale  name"  to  the  Greek  author  of  the  Stratulax  scenes.     We 
have  seen  already  (§  7)   how  few  lines  fall  to  Stratulax,  but 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          173 

yet  his  character  so  dominates  the  play  that,  in  a  paradoxical 
sense,  his  two  scenes  look  almost  like  a  mime — a  Herondean 
mime — given  length  by  contamination  with  the  old  stock  busi- 
ness of  the  nea — a  bragging  soldier,  two  young  men  sowing 
their  wild  oats,  a  meretrix,  a  wronged  young  lady,  mother  of 
a  child  by  her  former  fiance,  to  whom  she  is  to  be  reunited  be- 
fore the  curtain  falls.  In  the  first  scene,  The  Truculent,  avail- 
ing himself  of  the  doorbar  (sera)  or  doorpeg  (pessulus)  to 
gesticulate  a  phallus,  repulses  and  rebuffs,  with  comic  inver- 
sion of  the  expected  action,  the  amorous  advances  of  Astaphium, 
once  a  meretrix,  now  sunk  to  an  ancilla  meretricis — a  sort  of 
duenna,  perhaps,  like  Scapha  in  the  Mostellaria.  Later  on,  in 
the  counterscene,  his  mood  all  changed  to  compliance  and  invi- 
tation, he  reiterates  the  phallic  play,  actually  employing  a 
paxillum  (i.  e.  a  pessulus).  Its  grossness  apart,  this  scene  is 
supremely  clever,  and  there  is  a  positive  stroke  of  genius  at 
the  end  where  The  Truculent,  in  the  height  of  his  ogling,  on 
learning  that  his  young  master  has  entered  the  lair  of  the  mere- 
trix, flares  up  in  a  sharp  outcry  with  the  old  truculence,  cast- 
ing aside  for  the  nonce  his  vaunted  urbanity  and  new  culture. 
No  playwright,  whether  Shakespeare  or  another,  has  ever  sur- 
passed in  portraiture  effect  the  result  here  so  simply  and  eco- 
nomically achieved. 

Proverbial  character  of  the  Truculent 

26.  A  character  like  The  Truculent 's  was  foreordained  to 
become  proverbial.  See  how  the  composer  of  the  acrostic  argu- 
ment seized  on  his  traits  in  the  words, 

ui  magna  seruos  est  ac  trucibus  moribus, 
lupae  ni  rapiant  domini  parsimoniam : 
et  is  tamen  mollitur. 

His  seachange  also  met  the  notice  of  Donatus  (ad  Terenti  Ad. 
V,  ix,  29)  :  bene  in  postremo  dignitas  personae  huius  seruata 
est,  ut  non  perpetuo  commutata  uideretur,  ut  Truculenti  apud 
Plautum.  As  a  characterization  of  another,  the  name  of  The 
Truculent  would  be  apt  (1)  for  a  change  in  general  from  trucu- 
lence to  mildness;  (2)  for  a  like  change  in  an  amorous  relation; 


174  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

(3)  for  an  improvement  in  urbanity;  (4)  or  merely  to  describe 
great  violence  of  manner. 

Stratulax  and  the  Second  Philippic 

27.  In  a  letter  belonging  to  November-December  B.  C.  44, 
a  time  shortly  after  the  incubation  of  the  Second  Philippic, 
which  had  been  sent  to  Atticus  only  some  three  to  five  weeks 
before,  Cicero  at  the  end  of  his  letter,36  hastening  to  the  signa- 
ture (as  we  would  say),  writes  this  cryptic  sentence: 

Leptae  litterarum  exemplum  tibi  misi  ex  quo  mihi   videtur 
Stratillax   (i.  e.  Stratulax,  see  §  25)   ille  deiectus  de  gradu. 
Now  in  deiectus  de  gradu  we  have  an  excellent  interpretative 
clue.     This  is  to  be  interpreted,  after  the  good  rule  of  explain- 
ing Cicero  by  Cicero,  in  the  light  of  de  off.  1,  80, 

fortis  vero  animi  et  constantis  est  non  perturbari  in  rebus 
asperis  nee  tumultuantem  de  gradu  deici  ut  dicitur.37 
Here,  as  in  our  homely  figure  of  the  barnyard,  I  take  de  gradu 
deici  to  mean  "to  be  knocked  off  his  perch,"  used  of  a  quarrel- 
some cock,  deiectus  de  gradu  scalae  gallinariae  (cf.  also  Varro, 
r.  r.  3,  3,  4,  for  the  climbing  ladder  in  an  aviary).  The  stereo- 
typed explanation  from  the  fencing  of  gladiators  is  a  pure 
guess,  certified  by  nothing;  nor  is  de  gradu,  as  in  Thes.  LL.  V. 
398,  16,  to  be  closely  grouped  with  de  loco  or  de  statu,  a  mis- 
take forbidden  by  Cicero's  ut  dicitur  (cf.  also  Otto,  Sprich- 
woerter,  s.  v.  deicio).  Again,  it  is  a  mere  guess  to  interpret 
Stratulax  ille,  by  ' ' imperatorculus, "  an  interpretation  which 
Stephanus  (s.  v.  Stratullax)  properly  challenged.  Be  it  noted 

"The  remainder  of  the  letter  is  a  genuine  postscript,  subsequently 
added,  before  despatch  of  the  missive,  in  response  to  a  communication 
received  meantime  from  Atticus. 

37That  is,  not  to  be  fluctuating  and  choleric.  In  this  sense  Tacitus, 
dial.  26,  writes  of  Cassius  Severus,  .  .  .  quamquam  plus  bilis  habeat 
quam  sanguinis  .  .  omissa  modestia  ac  pudore  verborum,  ipsis  etiam 
quibus  utitur  armis  incompositis  et  studio  feriendi  plerumque  deiectus, 
non  pugnat  sed  rixatur.  Clearly  in  Cicero  deiectus  de  gradu  might 
refer  to  the  "floundering"  of  an  irate,  but  inexpert,  speaker-  like 
Antonius. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          175 

in  passing  that,  while  I  was  correcting  a  proof  of  this  essay, 
a  negro  servant  boy  answering  to  the  name  of  il General" — and 
the  sobriquet  is  not  rare — brought  a  package  fo  my  door. 

Aptness  of  the  name  Stratulax  to  Antony 

28.  The  Second  Philippic  reveals  several  points  which  would 
justify  the  application  of  the  name  of  Stratulax,  the  Truculent, 
to    Mark   Antony:    (1)    to    characterize    the   mere   violence   of 
Antony's   reply,   on   Sept.    19,    to   the  First  Philippic;    (2)    to 
sneer  at  Antony's  amorous  reconciliation  with  Fulvia  as   re- 
counted at  length  and  with  gusto  in  Phil.  II,  77  sq. ;    (3)   to 
characterize  Antony's   relatively  mild  demeanor  to   Cicero   in 
the  senate,  after  the  fury  of  his  edict ;  (4)  to  sneer  at  the  new 
"urbanity"  of  Antony's   Ciceroniad  and, the  rhetorical  coach- 
ing he  had  taken  for  it;  (5)  lastly,  the  Cicero  who  had  written 
of  Antony 

dat  nataliciam  in  hortis.  cui  ?  neminem  nominabo :  putate  turn 
Phormioni  alicui,  turn  Gnathoni,  turn  etiam  Ballioni 
might  well,  in  a  private  letter,  have  branded  Antony  with  the 
name  of  the  most  violent — with  the  possible  exception  of  Ballio 
— of  all  the  characters  on  the  Roman  comic  stage.  Leo's  warn- 
ing (see  his  note  on  vs.  256)  not  to  look  to  Cicero's  Stratilax 
for  the  elucidation  of  the  character  of  The  Truculent  (or  con- 
versely) means  a  mere  refusal  to  search  for  evidence:  "nomen 
proprium  non  indiderat  poeta. "  Alack  and  alas! 

Derivation  of  the  name  Stratulax;  interpretative  clues 

29.  Against   the   admission   of   the   name   Stratulax   as  the 
name  of  the  servus  rusticus  (§21  fn.)  et  truculentus  the  argu- 
ment has  been  seriously  advanced  that  Stratulax  is  not  a  nomen 
servile  Graecum!    Certainly  "not,  and  neither  is  the  name  Pseu- 
dulus    (haplologically    shortened    from    Pseu/do/-dolos,    quasi 
"Guile-tricker")   a  typical  nomen  servile,  but  a  nomen  signifi- 
cant a  poeta  quodam  Graeco  sive  assumptum  sive  conflatum* 
Just  so  Stratulax38  (:  *  stratulos  :  :  Strabax  :  strabos  "squint- 

"The  long  a  may  be  due  to  Latin  flexion  types,  cf.  Gulax  "Throaty" 
(Lat.  gula).  The  derisive  name  Strabax  is  no  typical  nomen  adulescen- 
tis,  cither. 


176  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

eyed"  :  :  litkax  "stony":  lithos  "stone")  will  be  a1  derisive 
name  (nomen  irrisivum),  compounded  (with  haplology)  from 
Strato— \-tulax  (or  -tolax),  cL  the  gloss  tolux,  aidoion;  or  from 
strato-^-lax.  The  comic  poet,  like  another  Shakespeare,  may 
be  expected  to  have  played  at  will  with  his  telltale  name,  mak- 
ing quips  (1)  now  on  strata  (i.  e.  "prostratus"  or  "stramen- 
tum, "  cf.  vs.  278,  in  stramentis  pernoctare)  •  (2)  now  on  lax 
(cf.  vs.  268,  pedibus  proteram,  translating,  I  take  it,  fakpateso;3* 
(3)  now  on  -tulax  or  -tolax.  As  Vahlen  rightly  saw,  the  Greek 
author  of  the  Truculentus  translated  the  name  Phronesium  for 
the  benefit  of  his  hearers  (in  vs.  1S^),  while  for  the  Roman  audi- 
ence, as  Vahlen  duly  insisted,40  the  interpretation  of  the  name 
was  indispensable. 

Further  interpretative  clues  from  the  telltale  name 

30.  Numerous  further  suggestions  for  quips  -.were  likely 
to  arise  from  the  composition  of  strata-  with  -tulax.  Thus  if 
-tulax  belongs  with  tide  "culcita"  the  compound  would  indi- 
cate (1)  very  much  what  the  compound  Eunuchus  ("chamber- 
lain") indicates,  viz.,  "qui  sternit  culcitas. "  The  taunt  of 
being  a  eunuch  (cf.  also  the  use  made  of  a  eunuch's  disguise  in 


39No  one  who  has  ever  read  his  Shakespeare  can  be  at  a  loss  for 
instances  how  one  word  suggests  another  and  quip  begets  quip.  But 
it  is  not  only  in  the  jocular  sphere  that  one  word  so  suggests  another 
that  words  may  be  said  to  do 'our  thinking  for  us.  It  is  in  this  sense 
that  Brunetie're  criticized  Victor  Hugo:  In  the  poet  Hugo  the 
quality  of  verbal  cleverness  .  .  often  .  .  made  up  for  the  insufficiency 
of  ideas.  For  words  express  ideas,  although  some  of  those  who  jingle 
them  are  not  always  fully  aware  of  it;  and  one  thinks  just  by  "speak- 
ing", when  one  speaks*  like  Hugo,  with  that  sense  of  the  depth  of 
vocables  which  he  possessed  and  with  that  marvellous  gift  of,  drawing 
from  them  unknown  resonances. 

*°Schoell's  strictures  on  Vahlen  (ed.  major,  p.  xlvi)  belong  to  the 
ancient  days  when  the  psychology  of  classical  playwrights  and  their 
audiences  was  submitted  to  the  rigid  whimsies  of  Teutonic  study-logic. 
To  say  nothing  of  the  Roman  audience,  the  original  Greek  audience 
would  surely  not  have  taken  amiss  the  interpretation  of  Phronesion  in 
terms  of  sophia  (cf.  on  tautology  in  literature  Friedrich  ad  Catull. 
40,  5),  quasi  "Miss  Prudence  hath  ta'en  my  wits  away." 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          177 

Terence's  play  of  that  name)  would  apply  to  Stratulax'  repulse, 
in  his  first  scene,  of  Astaphium's  amorous  advances.  If  -tulax 
belongs  with  tiilos  "paxillum"  (cf.  §  9)  the  compound  amounts 
(2)  to  truncus  lentus*1  (cf:  §  17),  in  reverse  order.  (3)  If,  as 
a  derisive  epithet,  the  name  Stratulax  were  ancient  enough, 
-lax  might  have  its  original  sense  of  "tun dens,  tudicula"  (cf. 
Meister,  Herond.,  p.  749),  cognate  with  Lat.  lacerat  and  lacessit 
(="  provocat,  irritat").  (4)  As  a  passive  noun,  the  same  -lax 
might  mean  "provocatio,  irritatio, "  and  the  whole  compound 
be  equivalent  to  "qui  prostrata  est  irritatione"  (cf.  OLat.  lax 
"f  raus"  in  Fe-stus,  noting  for  the  sense  the  metaphor  whereby 
ferit  percutit,  etc.,  yield  "fraudat";  see  Lorenz's  note  in  the 
preface  to  his  Psendulus,  p  48  sq.)  (5)  Again,  if  the  name  were 
old  enough,  -lax  might  mean  "voluntas"  or  "ira"  (lax  :  lema 
:  :  ptdx  :  petvos) .  (6)  Or  it  may  be  in  gradation  with  Ivko  to 
morion  to  andreion  (cf.  lEkdei  as  used  in  Aristophanes,  Thesm. 
493),  and  the  name  Strain-lax  mean  "prostrata  mentula,''  de- 
scribing the  lentitude  of  Stratulax  in  the  first  scene. 

31.  Thus  it  appears  that  the  poet's  choice  or  invention  of 
the  name  Stmtulax  hangs  closely  with  the  chief  action  of  The 
Truculent,  viz.  the  (inverted)  phallic  play  with  the  sera  or 
pessulus  in  II,  ii  (§  3)  ;  and  with  the  paxilliim  in  III,  ii  (§  9). 
For  the  words  reprime  serram  (§12)  we  may  even  hope  to  re- 
store the  original  Greek,  viz.  ani-sche/s/  stulon  (quasi  thiirsos, 
cf.  Euripides,  frg.  202;  i.  e.  a  phallus;  note  the  Latin  glosses 
caulus  thyrsus  tursus),  the  stnlos  here  being  the  mochlos  or 
bdlanos  (paxillum,  pessidus,  §  2).  In  the  Greek  original  stulos 
was  retorted,  after  anische/s/*z  by  some  form  of  tulos=mdn- 
dalos,  pdssalos,  mentula,  though  the  actual  words  of  the  retort 
may  be  restored  as  toud'  (sc.  till  on)  antechou  (§  13).  Thanks  to 
the  Latin  locution  with  serram  diicere  (§  12),  Plautus  was  able, 
in  Astaphium's  further  retort,  still  more  to  deploy  the  jest  from 
terra  (rustic  for  sera)  as  echoed  with  an  intimation  of  sera 
(mentula). 


41As  an  epithet,  the  uncompounded  truncus  lentus  may  be  compared 
with  the  Pompeius  epithet  of  Sopio,  cf.   §   2  fn. 


178  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Summary   (see  also  §18) 

32.  I  believe  myself  to  have  established  in  the  foregoing 
paper  the  following  points  for  the  interpretation  of  the  Trucu- 
lentus  of  Plautus : 

(1)  II,  ii  is  a  scene  of  (inverted)  phallic  play,  exhibiting 
Stratulax '  amorous  lentitude,   coupled  with  great  vio- 
lence. 

(2)  III,   ii  is  a  scene  of  direct  phallic  play,   exhibiting 
Stratulax'    amorous    revivification    and    restored    good 
temper. 

(3)  The  telltale  name  Stratulax  (§§  29  sq.)  either="qui 
prostrata  est  mentula, "  characterizing  the  action  of  II, 
ii;  or  "qui  prostrata  est  irritatione, ",  characterizing  the 
action  of  III,  ii   (§§  7  sq;  11  sq.). 

(4)  The  name  Stratulax,  become  proverbial,  was  applied 
by  Cicero  to  Mark  Antony  (§  28). 


"If  to  the  correct  form  anische  the  Greek  original  added  s  it  was 
because  of  doublets  like  pdrasche/pardsches  (fdnasche/andsches) ;  and 
for  the  purpose  of  establishing  an  equivoque  between  tulos  and  stulos.- 
On  the  distribution  of  Greek  puns  between  word-final  and  word-initial 
see  e.  g.  K.  Ohlert,  Ratsel  und  Ratselspiele  der  alien  Oriechen,  p.  8. 
Perhaps  the  rustic  chose  to  hear  Astaphium's  anische  sttilon  as  anisches 
tulon. 


WILLIAM  HARVEY 

BY    AUTE    RICHARDS 

William  Harvey,  son  of  a  Kentish  yoeman,  was  born  at  Folke- 
stone, Kent,  April  1,  1578,  when  Shakespeare  was  a  lad  of  four- 
teen years.  The  house  in  which  he  was  born  is  now  the  prop- 
erty of  Cambridge  University,  to  which  Harvey  bequeathed  it. 
His  early  school  days,  like  those  of  Shakespeare's  great  con- 
temporary Christopher  Marlowe,  were  spent  in  the  King's  School, 
Canterbury.  Like  Marlowe,  Harvey  went  from  this  school  to 
Cambridge  University,  matriculating  at  Caius  College,  where 
he  took  his  B.  A.  degree  in  1597.  He  had  determined  to  study 
medicine  by  this  time,  and  for  'this  purpose  journeyed  to  the 
continent.  He  traveled  through  France,  Germany  and  Italy,  and 
became  a  student  at  the  University  of  Padua,  the  most  famous 
school. of  medicine  at  that  time.  "Fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts" 
will  be  remembered  as  the  background  for  most  of  the  action 
in  Shakespeare's  Taming  of  the  Shrew.  To  that  University 
Lucentio  had  come  for  "a  course  of  learning  and  ingenious 
studies."  During  his  period  as  a  medical  student  Harvey  was 
very  popular  and  was  chosen  student  "concillor"  for  England, 
a  fact  which  bears  testimony  to  his  prominence  among  his  fel- 
low students,  for  these  student  concillors  in  their  deliberations 
very  largely  managed  the  University  by  their  votes  upon  Uni- 
versity measures  and  instructors. 

At  Padua,  Harvey  came  in  contact  with  many  famous  people 
both  in  his  own  field  and  in  others;  for  instance,  Qallileo  was  at 
Padua  at  this  time.  The  most  important  influence,  however,  came 
from  his  studies  under  the  great  Fabricius  of  Aquapendente, 
who  developed  for  him  a  great  friendship.  The  importance  of 
this  influence  upon  Harvey's  later  work  is  easily  seen  when  it  is 
remembered  that  his  teacher,  one  of  Europe's  greatest  anatomists 
up  to  this  time,  was  already  past  sixty  years  of  age  and  was  at 
that  time  perfecting  his  knowledge  of  the  valves  in  the  veins. 
He  took  Harvey  into  his  confidence  and  thoroughly  instructed 
him  in  all  of  the  knowledge  of  the  circulatory  system  then  extant. 
Harvey  took  his  M.  D.  degree  from  Padua  on  the  25th  of  April, 
1602.  He  then  returned  to  England  and  was  graduated  in 

[179] 


180  ^  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

medicine  at  Cambridge  in  the  same  year.  It  is  worthy  of  favor- 
able comment  that  even  at  this  early  date  a  great  physician 
should  have  deemed  it  necessary  to  acquire  a  general  education 
at  Cambridge  before  spending  four  years  in  pursuing  his  special 
subject  abroad. 

Harvey,  soon  after  taking  his  M.  D.  from  Cambridge,  set 
up  a  practice  in  London.  There  he  may  have  seen  acted  for  the 
first  time  any  one  of  Shakespeare's  greatest  tragedies — Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  Othello,  or  King  Lear;  there  is  no  basis,  however,  for 
any  inference  that  he  may  have  had  a  personal  acquaintance 
with  Shakespeare.  He  was  married  in  1604  to  Elizabeth,  the 
daughter  of- Dr.  Lancelot  Browne,  who  had  formerly  been  phys- 
ician to  Queen  Elizabeth.  He  was  elected  a  Fellow  in  the  Royal 
College  of  Physicians  in  1607,  and  in  1609  became  physician  to 
St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital. 

Early  in  his  practice,  1604,  Harvey  had  begun  to  give  public 
lectures  on  anatomy ;  and  in  pursuance  of  this  task  he  had  stead- 
ily continued  his  own  investigations,  making  dissections  when 
opportunity  offered  and  studying  the  anatomy  of  animals  as 
well.  In  recognition  of  his  gradually  increasing  prominence 
and  of  his  scientific  attainments,  he  was  elected  Lumleian  Lec- 
turer at  the  College  of  Physicians  on  August  4,  1615.  and  in 
the  following  year  on  the  16,  17,  and  18  of  April  he  delivered  the 
lectures  in  which  he  first  announced  his  conclusions  in  regard 
to  the  circulation  of  the  blood.  These  three  lectures  were  con- 
cerned with  the  subject  of  anatomy  as  a  whole,  and  it  is  the 
second  which  is  of  particular  importance  to  the  physiology  of 
the  circulation.  This  lecture  deals  with  the  chest  and  its  con- 
tents, and  nine  pages  of  the  notes  refer  in  particular  to  the  heart. 
"He  first  describes  the  structure  of  the  heart  and  the  great 
blood  vessels,  explains  the  contraction  of  the  several  cavities  of 
the  heart,  the  form  and  use  of  its  valves  and  of  the  valves  in 
the  veins,  and  he  concludes  by  clearly  stating  that  he  has  thus 
demonstrated  that  the  perpetual  motion  of  the  blood  in  a  circle 
is  produced  by  the  beat  of  the  heart. "  (Diet.  Nat.  Biog.}  Har- 
vey continued  his  studies  in  this  direction  for  a  long  period,  wait- 
ing fourteen  years  to  publish  his  results,  until  1628  when  his 
book  "On  the  Motion  of  the  Heart  and  Blood  Vessels  in  Animals" 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          181 

(Exercitatio  Anatomico  de  Moto  Corfys  et  Sanguinis  in  Animali- 
frus)  appeared.  Thus  he  exhibited  his  great  scientific  patience 
and  deliberation. 

His  theories  on  the  circulation  did  not  go  unchallenged,  and  he 
had  to  defend  them  against  a  lively  opposition.  He,  however, 
finally  won  his  way  of  thinking  with  his  medical  associates,  and 
at  the  time  of  his  death  his  views  were  practically  accepted  by 
all  the  most  prominent  physicians.  He  demonstrated  the  circu- 
lation of  the  blood;  but  did  not  actually  see  it  in  the  capillaries, 
for  that  waited  until  the  perfection  of  lenses  in  1661,  which 
permitted  Malpighi  to  see  the  movement  of  the  blood  through 
the  capillaries  of  the  frog. 

.Harvey's  later  life  was  little  less  occupied.  He  was  court 
physician  to  James  I  and  Charles  I,  and,  in  this  capacity,  played 
his  part  in  the  tragic  historic  drama  then  being  enacted  in  Eng- 
land. During  all  this  period,  however,  he  continually  bent  his 
efforts  to  solving  the  mysteries  of  the  workings  of  the  animal 
body.  In  1646  he  retired  to  private  life  and  brought  out' his 
second  great  book  De  Generatione  Animalium  in  1651,  a  work 
which  in  itself  would  have  given  him  a  place  among  the  great- 
est names  in  the  history  of  biology.  On  June  3,  1657  he  ended 
an  eventful  and  a  forceful  life,  one  rich  in  accomplishments.  It 
is  to  its  effects,  however,  rather  than  to  its  events  that  his  great 
pre-eminence  is  due. 

Personally  Harvey  was  a  man  of  great  force,  yet  he  pos- 
sessed a  contemplative  mind.  Not  even  in  youth  did  his  bril- 
liant announcement  show  any  undue  haste  or  abruptness.  He  * 
was  slow  and  deliberate,  painstaking  and  careful.  In  scientific 
matters  he  was  charitable,  magnanimous,  and  even  in  his  replies 
to  his  opponents  well-mannered  and  considerate.  But  of  his  re- 
lations in  private  life  the  same  cannot  be  said,  for  he  is  described 
as  choleric  and  hasty;  yet  he  made  many  friends  whom  he  re- 
tained throughout  life,  and  he  was  at  all  times  held  in  the  highest 
respect.  He  was  by  nature  a  man  largely  and  thoughtfully 
generous,  and  his  writings  show  him  to  have  been  of  a  reverently 
religious  mind.  It  is  to  be  inferred  that  he  was  a  Protestant, 
though  there  is  no  complete  verification  of  this  in  his  writings, 


182  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

He  was  at  all  times  a  Royalist,  and  deeply  regretted  the  change 
in  government  with  the  coming  of  the  Commonwealth. 

In  the  history  of  biology  and  medicine  up  to  Harvey's  time 
three  broadly  marked  stages  may  be  observed.  First,  there  are 
the  scattered  and  poorly  systematized  observations  of  the  An- 
cients, lasting  to  about  200  A.  D.  Next  followed  the  long  period 
of  the  Dark  Ages,  a  time  of  implicit  reliance  upon  authorites. 
And  then  came  a  period  of  renewed  observation,  and  with  it  the 
decline  of  authority  initiated  by  the  famous  Paduan  anatomist, 
Vesalius  ( 1543 ) .  Vesalius  was  the  greatest  biologist  of  the  Ren- 
aissance up  to  Harvey's  time,  and  to  him  was  due  the  re-estab- 
lishment of  scientific  method.  He  was  a  pioneer  in  real  anat- 
omical research,  and  from  his  investigations  dates  the  period 
of  anatomical  ascendency.  With  Harvey  came  the  period  of 
physiology.  It  was  he  who  coupled  experimentation  with  anat- 
omical studies,  and  he  was  the  first  who  made  any  careful  studies 
upon  living  animals. 

The  circulation  of  the  blood  had  to  a  certain  extent  been  fore- 
shadowed by  investigators  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  Harvey 
was  the  first  who  fully  grasped  the  idea,  and  to  him  only  is  due 
the  credit  for  its  proof.  Serve tius,  in  1553,  had  clearly  stated 
the  idea  of  the  pulmonary  circulation  from  the  heart  to  the 
lungs  in  a  book  so  revolutionary  that  for  it  John  Calvin  accom- 
plished his  burning  at  the  stake.  This  idea  of  the  pulmonary 
circulation  was  also  expressed  by  Columbus,  professor  of  anatomy 
at  Rome,  in  1559,  but  it  is  thought  that  he  merely  stole  Serve- 
tius'  work,  for  he  gives  no  record  of  experiments  and  repeats 
almost  exactly  the  words  of  Servetius.  His  work  was  widely 
known,  yet  he  had  no  clear  idea  of  the  greater  circulation,  for  he 
says  that  the  heart  is  not  muscular,  and  he  speaks  of  a  "to 
and  fro"  movement  of  the  blood  in  the  veins.  The  last  step 
prior  to  Harvey  was  taken  by  his  teacher,  Fabricius,  to  whose 
work  on  the  valves  of  the  veins  reference  has  already  been  made. 

Harvey's  demonstration  was  the  result  of  reasoning  based  on 
two  kinds  of  experimentation :  ligatures  about  the  blood  vessels, 
and  the  exposure  of  the  heart  and  analysis  of  its  movements. 
The  true  conception  first  came  to  him  from  a  consideration  of  the 
action  of  the  cavities  of  the  heart  and  their  valves  and  of  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          183 

valves  of  the  veins.  "The  central  point  of  Harvey's  reasoning 
is  that  the  quantity  of  blood  which  reaches  the  left  cavity  of  the 
heart  in  a  given  space  of  time  makes  necessary  its  return  to  the 
heart,  since  in  a  half  hour  (or  less)  the  heart  by  successive  pul- 
sations throws  into  the  great  artery  more  than  the  total  quan- 
tity of  blood  in  the  body."  (Locy.)  The  following  additional 
propositions  also  had  a  place  in  his  reasoning :  the  heart  is  an 
organ  of  propulsion  of  the  blood;  the  auricles  contract  first, 
forcing  the  blood  into  the  ventricles ;  the  ventricles  then  contract, 
forcing  the  blood  into  the  arteries ;  the  blood  returns  to  the  heart 
by  way  of  the  veins ;  the  veins  empty  the  blood  into  the  auricles. 
From  these  facts  Harvey  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
blood  passes  from  the  arteries  to  the  veins. 

Until  Harvey's  time  it  was  generally  assumed  that  the  blood 
ebbed  and  flowed  in  the  veins,  while  the  arteries  contained  va- 
rious kinds  of  "spirits,"  the  natural,  vital,  and  animal  spirits. 
To  ths  doctrine  Harvey's  demonstration  gave  the  death  blow. 

"The  new  theory  of  the  circulation  made  for  the  first  time 
possible  a  true  conception  of  the  nutrition  of  the  body,  it  cleared 
the  way  for  the  chemical  appreciation  of  the  uses  of  the  blood, 
it  afforded  a  basis  which  had  not  existed  before  for  an  under- 
standing of  how  the  life  of  any  part,  its  continued  existence  and 
its  power  to  do  what  it  has  to  do  in  the  body  is  carried  on  by  the 
help  of  the  blood.  And  in  this  perhaps  more  than  its  being  a 
true  explanation  of  the  special  problem  of  the  heart  'and  the 
blood  vessels  lies  its  vast  importance."  (Foster.) 

"The  true  idea  of  respiration,  of  secretion  by  glands,  the 
chemical  changes  in  the  tissues,  in  fact  of  all  the  general  activi- 
ties of  the-  body  hinge  upon  this  conception.  It  was  these  con- 
sequences of  his  demonstration  rather  than  the  fact  that  the 
blood  moves  in  a  circuit  which  made  it  so  important.  This  dis- 
covery created  modern  physiology."  (Locy.) 

Finalty,  Harvey's  life  as  expressed  in  his  scientific  work  was 
a  genuine  example  of  what  we  now  term  the  scientific  method. 
Possessed  of  a  mind  always  curious  to  know  more  of  the  truth 
about  the  activities  of  the  animal  body,  he  ever  gave  himself 


184  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

to  the  minutest  and  most  painstaking  search,  and  was  satisfied 
only  when  his  observation  and  experiments  forced  him  unques- 
tionably to  the  truth  of  his  conclusions.  In  his  quest  for  truth 
he  had  the  spirit  of  a  modern  investigator,  of  a  man  many  years 
ahead  of  his  times;  and  the  fact  that  time  has  not  dimmed  the 
brilliance  of  his  demonstration  is  positive  proof  of  his  own  great 
intellectual  superiority. 


"KNOW  THYSELF"  INTERPRETED  BY  SOCRATES, 
SHAKESPEARE,  WM.  H!ARVEY,  AND  MODERN  MEN 

BY   WM.    E.    RITTER 

Every  wise  modern  heeds  the  admonition,  Know  Thou  Thyself , 
no  less  religiously  than  did  that  one  of  the  Seven  Sages  who 
uttered  it  first.  What  do  the  words  mean  to-day  ?  We  no  longer 
post  them  over  the  temple  door  of  the  Delphic  oracle.  But  if 
we  were  to  inscribe  them  on  any  of  our  temple-s,  which  should 
they  be — those  of  Religion,  Art,  Education,  or  Science?  Let  my 
contribution  to  this  festival  week  be  a  plea  for  renewed  devotion 
to  this  injunction,  and  for  the  adoption  of  it  in  all  our  temples. 

Historically  the  mandate  recalls  unending  discussions  on  ab- 
stract philosophy  in -a  dusty,  musty  past,  and  causes  something 
of  a  shudder;  so  the  proposal  to  devote  this  hour  to  it  may 
seem  like  proposing  to  make  the  hour  dull  and  heavy.  But  we 
are  living  in  a  cruelly  heavy  time.  No  matter  how  determinedly 
we  may  resolve  to  forget  for  the  moment  the  gigantic  events 
in  the  midst  of  which  we  are,  the  deeper  currents  of  our  con- 
scious lives  can  not  escape  them.  Calamity  is  the  great  tester 
of  philosophy.  A  period  like  this  reveals  to  men  the  sort  of 
theories  and  ideals  of  life  they  have  been  nurturing  as  nothing 
else  can. 

The  last  few  generations  of  Westerners  have  been  boastfully 
confident  that  they  have  largely  outgrown  philosophy  and  have 
emerged  finally  into  the  clear  light  of  practicality.  But  what 
disillusionment  we  are  undergoing !  Who  does  not  see  now,  as 
probably  he  never  saw  before,  the  necessity  of  probing  the  roots 
of  every  thing  pertaining  to  human  relations?  And  does  not 
about  the  first  move  in  this  direction  discover  that  our  supposed 
practical  age  has  in  reality  been  permeated  with  the  most  di- 
verse and  far-reaching  though  little  criticized  doctrines?  A 
few  students  have  been  all  along  awake  to  the  import  of  such 
doctrines  as  those  of  materialistic  determinism  in  human  history, 
of  " economic  society,"  and  of  Malthusianism ;  but  not  till  lately 
have  any  considerable  number  of  persons  supposed  that  those 
doctrines  were  of  much  practical  consequence.  How  many  in 

[185] 


186  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

our  country  at  least,  had  even  guessed  before  these  last  months 
what  a  philosophy  of  militarism  and  a  theory  of  the  State  are 
capable  of  doing? 

To  know  one's  self  implies  a  theory  of  self.  The  bloody  dis- 
order now  filling  the  world  is,  I  am  persuaded,  largely  a  conse- 
quence of  inadequate  and  erroneous  theories  of  self  and  of  so- 
ciety that  have  prevailed  through  the  centuries  and,  though  im- 
proved, still  prevail.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  occasion 
will  justify  us  in  thinking  on  this  great  matter  even  though 
our  thoughts  can  be  in  baldest  outline  only. 

My  fundamental  thesis  is  twofold :  there  are  many  more  vital 
constituents  in  human  nature  than  dominating  theories  of  man 
have  taken  account  of;  and  these  constituents  interact  upon 
one  another  far  more  widely  and  fundamentally  than  theory 
has  recognized. 

To  each  of  the  great  primal  divisions  of  man's  nature  taken 
separately,  to  spiritual  man  and  to  physical  man,  great  atten- 
tion has  been  given.  Particularly  in  previous  centuries  theology 
and  philosophy  wrought  out  doctrines  of  man's  spiritual  nature 
with  unbounded  zea]  and  industry  and  skill.  And  in  modern 
times  biology,  with  its  numerous  subdivisions,  has  builded  in  the 
realm  of  his  physical  nature  with  no  less  zeal  and  industry  and 
skill.  But  never  have  the  theories  in  the  two  realms  been  brought 
together  into  anything  like  a  consistent,  harmonious  whole.  In- 
deed it  has  too  often  been  a  cardinal  doctrine  of  each  side  that 
no  such  getting  together  is  possible;  that  its  own  triumph  de- 
mands the  utter  subjugation  of  the  other  side.  The  misery  that 
human-kind  has  brought  upon  itself  through  the  false  theory  that 
success  is  attainable  only  by  the  complete  overthrow  of  an  ad- 
versary ! 

But  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  in  two  great  realms  of  so- 
ciology and  medicine,  the  enormous  activity  of  recent  decade-s 
is  resulting,  however  vaguely  the  fact  may  be  recognized,  in  the 
breaking  down  of  the  impermeable  bulkhead  that  has  so  long 
separated  theories  of  man's  spiritual  being  from  theories  of  his 
physical  being. 

That  manufacture,  trade,  finance,  and  industrial  and  political 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          187 

organization,  sanitation,  and  criminology  are  intrinsically  phys- 
ical no  one  can  refute ;  yet  the  occasional  excursions  I  have  made 
into  these  fields  convince  me  of  a  growing  recognition  among 
leaders  that  no  matter  how  severely  material  any  particular 
problem  may  be,  rational,  moral,  esthetic,,  and  religious  elements 
are  always  present  and  demand  consideration.  I  am  quite  sure  - 
all  economic  theory  to-day  is  seeing  the  inevitability  and  power 
of  ethical  factors  far  more  than  formerly. 

In  medicine,  too,  there  is  growing  recognition  that  attention 
•to  physical  matters  alone  can  not  reach  the  highest  success  in 
the  actual  task  of  restoring  sick  men  and  women  to  health,  and 
keeping  them  healthy.  No  successful  physician  ever,  I  believe, 
wholly  ignores  the  psychical  element  in  his  patient,  however 
scantily  his  formal  training  may  have  fitted  him  for  this  side 
of  his  work.  The  no  distant  future,  is,  I  think,  bound  to  see  the 
now  rudimentary  psycho-therapy  work  great  changes  in  medical 
theory  and  practice. 

The  "get  together"  slogan  of  modern  business  is  needed  in 
modern  science  and  philosophy.  As  a  man  of  science  I  am  filled 
with  consternation  as  I  come  to  really  think  about  the  part 
science  has  been  made  to  play  in  the  present  world  holocaust. 
Superposed  on  the  physical  tragedy  of  the  Lusitama  I  see  an- 
other tragedy  no  less  dreadful — a  tragedy  of  the  human  soul. 

The  civilization  of  the  modern  West  is  the  climax  of  all  the 
civilization  of  the  world,  and  its  most  distinctive  attribute  is 
physical  science.  So  men  of  science  have  affirmed  and  hardly 
any  one  has  questioned  the  affirmation.  In  no  way,  all  agree, 
is  the  greatness  of  science  more  manifest  than  in  its  application 
to  satisfying  the  practical  needs  and  desires  of  man.  And  few 
achievements  of  applied  science  have  been  more  applauded  than 
the  trans-oceanic  liner. 

Now  behold  the  marvel  that  has  come  to  pass!  Science  pro- 
duces and  successfully  operates  these  noble  ships  and  at  the 
self-same  time  and  in  much  the  same  way,  not  only  produces  an 
instrument  for  instantly  destroying  them,  but  actually  does  de- 
stroy them  heedless  that  hundreds  of  innocent  human  beings  are 
involved  in  the  ruin!  Has  the  world  ever  seen  or  conceived 
anything  more  astounding  at  the  hands  of  man!  Is  it  really 

13 — S 


188  ,  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

true  that  the  motive  power  behind  civilization  can  do  nothing 
greater  than  find  some  means  of  destroying  anything  it 
can  create?  Is  growth  in  civilization  purely  quantitative — 
purely  a  matter  of  giving  the  head-hunter's  business  greater 
scope  and  precision  and  power?  Is  the  making  of  hell  more 
hellish  the  supreme  achievement  of  science?  I  do  not  believe 
so,  despite  the  strong  evidence  pointing  that  way.  But  scien- 
tific men  ought  to  recognize  that  the  share  of  blame  and  shame 
which  falls  to  science  is  not  small. 

It  would  be  unjust  and  foolish  to  contend  under  prevailing 
conceptions  of  right  and  wrong  that  moral  culpability  rests 
upon  the  chemists,  the  physicists,  the  engineers,  and  others  who 
have  participated  in  making  the  war  machine  the  dreadful  thing 
it  is.  But  when  men  shall  come  to  know  themselves  and  other 
men  and  nature  as  these  really  are,  moral  law,  if  not  civil  law, 
will,  I  believe,  interdict  science  from  lending  itself  to  the  dire 
business  in  such  unrestrained  way  as  it  has  hitherto. 

To  see  something  of  the  character  of  that  knowledge  of  man 
and  nature  which  would  tend-  to  such  an  end,  is  the  task  be- 
fore us. 

That  wonderful  period,  the  later  sixteenth  century  and  the 
earlier  seventeenth,  in  which  the  two  great  Englishmen  lived 
whose  works  are  the  occasion  of  this  week 's  meetings,  contributed 
more,  I  believe,  to  such  knowledge  than  any  other  period  of 
equal  length  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Run  over  the  list  of 
familiar  names  belonging  here.  Galileo,  Kepler,  Tycho  Brahe, 
Torrecelli,  Giordano  Bruno  and  Rene  Descartes  might  have 
seen  Shakespeare  act  had  it  been  customary  then  for  companies 
to  which  he  belonged  to  tour  continental  Europe;  and  Francis 
BacOn  and  Wm  Harvey  may  have  actually  seen  him  at  the 
English  court.  Going  only  a  trifle  outside  of  Shakespeare's 
lifetime,  the  very  year  that  baby  Willie's  little  lungs  filled  with 
air  for  the  first  time,  Andreas  Vesalius  died  a  hungry  outcast 
because  of  his  offense  in  proving  that  if  man  would  really  know 
himself,  one  source  of  his  knoAvledge  must  be  the  dissection  of 
the  dead  human  body.  And  "these  bones"  of  the  great  author 
of  his  own  epitaph  were  not  clean  of  organic  matter  before  the 
mothers  of  Isaac  Newton,  John  Boyle,  John  Mayow,  Marcello 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          189 

Malpighi,  John  Ray  and  Antony  von  Leeuwenhoeck  had  given 
birth  to  the  baby  sons  destined  to  develop  into  these  notable 
men. 

Entering  now  a  little  further  into  the  historical  side  of  our 
subject,  I  ask  you  to  recall  the  conditions  under  which  Socrates 
took  the  exhortation,  Know  Thyself,  as  the  text  of  his  life-long 
sermonizing  to  his  fellow  Athenians.  For  a  century  before 
Socrates,  the  atmosphere  of  the  little  Greek  community  was 
charged  with  speculation  about  the  mode  of  origin  of  the  world. 
We  recall  how  a  single,  simple  primal  world-stuff  as  the  basis 
of  everything  was  a  self-evident  proposition  to  the  Ionian  school : 
while  a  thorough-going  multiplicity  or  pluralism  seemed  equally 
certain  to  another  school,  the  later  elaborators  of  the  doctrines 
of  Being  and  Becoming,  who  contended  for  the  reality  of  things 
as  they  transform  into  one  another.  We  know  too,  the  conclu- 
sive arguments  by  which  it  was  proved  that  Water,  Air,  and 
Fire  is,  each  in  turn,  the  "real  thing"  in  the  cosmic  matter 
theory.  Further,  we  know  as  much  perhaps  as  we  need  to  know 
about  the  atomism  of  Leucippus,  the  mind-stuff-ism  of  Anaxa- 
goras,  the  numberism  of  Pythagoras,  and  so  on.  Some  historians 
of  philosophy  have  aptly  called  the  first  period  of  Greek  phil- 
osophy a  cosmological  period. 

Then  arose,  according  to  wont  in  such  cases,  the  strong,  eager, 
independent,  and  courageous  protestant  against  the  vapid  mata- 
physics  of  nature  then  prevalent.  The  new  seeker  after  truth 
was  Socrates.  ' '  For  heaven 's  sake, ' '  we  seem  to  hear  this  young 
"knocker"  exclaim  after  he  had  drunk  his  fill  at  the  approved 
fountains  of  wisdom,  "since  we  must  philosophize,  let  us  see 
if  we  can't  find  a  way  of  doing  it  that  will  lead  to  something 
tangible  and  permanent;  and  above  all,  to  something  of  conse- 
quence to  human  beings. ' '  About  the  chief  ground  of  Socrates 's 
rebellion  was  that  man  seemed  to  him  left  out  of  the  systems 
against  which  he  fought,  while  the  only  subject,  thought  he, 
worthy  of  serious  study  by  serious  men,  is  man  himself.  "God 
has  commanded  me  to  examine  men,"  and  "In  the  city  I  can 
learn  men,  but  the  fields  and  trees  teach  me  nothing,"  he  said. 

Despite  Socrates 's  failure  to  do  all  he  started  out  to  do  and 
believed  he  was  doing,  we  must,  I  think,  recognize  that  he  did 


190  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

two  things  that  will  endure  forever  and  be  true  for  all  realms  of 
knowledge.  He  drove  home  the  truth  that  since  all  knowledge 
is  man 's  knowledge — is  wrought  out  by  man  for  man — the  human 
element  can  never  be  eliminated  from  it  no  matter  how  purely 
objective  it  may  seem  to  be ;  and  that  the  process  of  knowledge- 
getting  itself  must  be  critically  examined  in  order  that  'knowledge 
may  be  trustworthy.  What  greater  service  has  ever  been  ren- 
dered mankind,  what  service  is  more  needed  in  this  very  day, 
than  that  of  convicting  us  of  that  "shameful  ignorance  which 
consists  in  thinking  we  know  when  we  do  not  know?" 

But  while  acknowledging  Socrates 's  great  merit  in  recogniz- 
ing the  necessity  of  critically  examining  the  process  of  knowledge- 
getting,  we  must  not  be  blind  to  the  disastrous  incompleteness 
of  the  results  he  reached  by  his  own  efforts.  The  theory  of 
knowledge  which  he  evolved  was  a  theory  of  only  one-half  of 
knowledge.  Know  thyself  meant  to  him  know  thyself  subjec- 
tively only.  It  did  not  mean  know  thyself  objectively.  It  meant 
know  half  of  thyself,  not  thy  whole  self. 

Recall  the  interpretation  he  put  upon  the  Delphic  oracle's 
pronouncement  that  he  was  the  wisest  of  men.  He  was  wise, 
he  said,  because  he  knew  he  knew  nothing,  whereas  others  re- 
puted to  be  wise  did  not  know  their  own  ignorance.  But  what 
sort  of  ignorance  was  it  in  which  he  gloried?  Why,  ignorance 
of  everything  except  himself,  and  "himself"  taken  subjectively. 
Refuting  the  charge  that  "Socrates  is  an  evil-doer,  who  meddles 
with  inquiries  into  things  beneath  the  earth,  and  in  heaven," 
he  insisted  that  it  was  false  and  unjust  for  Aristophanes  to 
represent  him  as  suspending  himself  in  a  basket  and  pretend- 
ing that  he  was  walking  on  air  when  the  truth  is,  he  said,  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  these  matters  as  all  knew  who  had  conversed 
with  him.  No  one,  he  said,  ever  heard  him  talk  about  anything 
earthy. 

Now  for  the  fatal  practical  weakness  in  the  Socratic  interpre- 
tation of  man.  Did  its  doctrine  of  self  implicate  nothing  but 
a  theory  of  concepts  and  cognition,  while  it  would  be  of  much 
interest  to  psychologists  and  logicians  and  epistemologists,  it 
would  not  vitally  concern  the  great  rank  and  file  of  men.  But 
owing  to  the  fact,  which  Socrates  recognized,  that  a  theory  of 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          191 

knowledge  does  finally  and  inevitably  implicate  a  theory  of 
morality,  and  to  the  further  fact  that  a  theory  of  moralit}* 
finally  and  inevitably  implicates  morality  itself,  it  has  turned 
out  that  this  philosophy  has  been  and  still  is  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance to  the  world  affected  by  it;  that  is,  to  what  we  call 
the  Western  World.  The  kernel  of  the  matter  is  that  Socrates 's 
doctrine  of  self  was  a  doctrine  of  myself  and  not  of  yourself. 
It  gives  an  assumed  reality  and  fundamentally  to  me  that  it 
does  not  give  to  you.  It  does  not  recognize  that  other  selves 
are  as  essential  to  my  existence  as  is  myself. 

The  ethical  system  launched  by  Socrates  and  continued  down . 
to  this  day  is  a  system  of  subjective  egoism.  It  never  has  recog- 
nized and  is  not  capable  of  recognizing  the  real  nature  of  human 
interdependence.  It  never  has  felt  nor  can  it  feel  the  full 
measure  of  man's  obligation  to  man.  That  virtue  which  in  the 
Socratic  system  is  the  concomitant  of  knowledge  is  not  full  and 
practical  virtue.  It  is  a  virtue  diluted  with  mock  humility  and 
aloofness  from  human  affairs. 

One  other  consequence  of  the  Socratic  theory  of  life  must  be 
noticed,  though  it  will  have  to  be  touched  even  more  cursorily 
than  those  previously  noticed. 

Socrates  "had  it  in  for"  the  poets  quite  as  well  as  for  the 
wise  men,  i.  e.,  the  philosophers  of  nature.  Why  was  this  ?  That 
he  should  have  had  a  grudge  against  the  comic  poets  is  not  sur- 
prising, for  he  had  felt  the  sting  of  their  ridicule.  But  why  did 
he  pronounce  the  great  tragedians  and  the  others  of  his  time  as 
without  wisdom,  and  so,  according  to  his  theory,  without  virtue  ? 
Because  they  too  were  too  much  occupied  with  other  things  than 
concepts.  Like  the  physicists,  they  treated  the  world  outside 
of  and  beyond  themselves  with  too  much  consideration.  Even 
their  gods  were  more  external  and  objective  than  he  could  tol- 
erate. The  point  of  consequence  in  this  for  us  is  that  a  great 
poet  as  Shakespeare,  for  example,  deals  with  externality  no  less 
than  does  the  physical  scientist.  The  poet  is  an  interpreter  of 
nature — of  sensuous  nature — no  less  than  is  the  naturalist.  To 
him  other  selves  are  as  real  and  significant  and  interesting  as  our 
own  selves,  just  as  they  are  to  great  naturalists. 

Look  now  in  summary  at  what  man's  effort  to  know  himself 


192  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

had  accomplished  by  the  time  Socrates  was  compelled  to  drink 
the  deadly  cup. 

First,  the  urgency  of  the  problem  had  been  more  definitely 
and  keenly  felt  than  ever  before.  In  the  second  place,  it  had 
been  formulated  with  a  fullness  and  definiteness  that  had  not 
hitherto  been  approached.  Further,  the  twofoldness  of  man's 
nature,  his  spiritual  group  of  attributes  and  his  physical  group 
had  been  so  sharply  differentiated  from  each  other  that  they 
had  seemed  to  belong  to  two  distinct  realms  of  existence.  So 
different  in  kind  were  the  two  groups  seen  to  be  that  it  was 
conceived  they  must  have  originated  in  antipodal  parts  of  the 
universe  and  that  their  being  together  must  be  more  or  less 
fortuitous  and  temporary.  The  ultimate  essence  of  man  could 
not  contain  so  much  that  is  incongruous,  contradictory,  and  even 
actively  hostile,  reasoned  the  leaders  of  thought  of  this  early 
period.  And  so  the  two  great  currents  of  interpretation  of 
man  were  definitely  started  that  have  flowed  down  through  the 
centuries  of  western  civilization,  each  sometimes  quite  oblivious 
of  the  other's  existence,  while  at  other  times  mingling  more  or 
less,  too  often  in  bitter  jealousy  and  strife  as  to  their  respective 
rights  and  powers  and  excellencies. 

The  discovery  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood  was  the  first 
great  demonstration  by  rigorous  methods  of  observation,  ex- 
perimentation, and  reasoning,  of  the  various  anatomico-physi- 
ological  systems  that  enter  into  the  composition  of  each  human 
being.  Harvey  did  not  discover  the  several  elements  of  the  cir- 
culatory mechanism:  heart,  arteries,  veins,  valves,  and  so  on. 
These  were  known  long  before  his  time.  What  he  did  was  to 
prove  how  these  are  interrelated ;  how  they  operate  together  and 
depend  upon  one  another;  how  the  work  of  the  heart  is  sup- 
plemented by  the  muscularity  of  the  arterial  walls;  how  the 
valves  of  the  veins  aid  the  veins  in  returning  the  systemic  blood 
to  the  heart.  Hitherto  Anatomy  and  Physiology  had  been 
largely  sciences  of  the  members  of  the  body.  With  this  dis- 
covery they  were  started  on  their  way  as  sciences  of  the  systems 
of  our  members. 

Discovery  after  discovery  closely  dependent  upon  that  made 
by  Harvey  soon  followed,  revealing  still  further  the  nature  and 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          193 

interdependence  of  the  body  parts.  Only  one  group  of  these 
need  detain  us  now.  The  demonstration  of  that  interrelation- 
ship between  the  blood  and  nervous  systems  which  constitutes 
the  vaso-motor  system,  and  which  opened  the  way  for  our  present 
insight  into  the  so-called  organic  sensations  and  our  physico- 
psychic  conception  of  the  emotions,  must  be  counted  as  one  of 
the  greatest  of  the  progeny  of  Harvey's  germinal  discovery. 
That  the  James-Lange  theory  of  emotion  may  be  regarded  as 
a  lineal  descendant  of  Harvey's  discovery — indeed  was  adum- 
brated by  Harvey  himself — is  seen  in  his  refutation  of  the  old 
notion  that  the  heart  is  the  seat  of  the  emotions.  "Every  affection 
of  the  mind, "  he  writes,  "that  is  attended  with  pleasure  and  pain, 
with  hope  and  fear,  is  simply  the  cause  of  an  agitation  which 
extends  to  the  heart  and  there  induces  change  from  natural  con- 
stitution, impairing  nutrition,  depressing  the  powers  of  life, 
and  so  engendering  disease."  Compare  this  with  the  following 
by  Professor  C.  Lange,  like  Harvey  a  physician.  "It  is  the 
vasomotor  system  that  we  have  to  thank  for  the  whole  emotional 
aspect  of  our  mental  life,  for  our  joys  and  sorrows,  our  hours 
of  happiness  and  misery.  If  the  objects  that  affect  our  senses 
had  not  the  power  to  throw  this  system  into  action,  we  should 
travel  through  life  indifferent  and  dispassionate." 

The  conception  of  emotion  held  by  modern  psychology,  un- 
doubtedly differs  in  important  respects  from  that  suggested  by 
Harvey.  But  it  is  clear  that  they  have  this  in  common :  all 
our  deepest  sentiments  and  passions,  good  and  bad,  are  insep- 
arably connected  with  and  dependent  upon  our  general  body 
constitution,  especially  upon  our  vasomotor  mechanism. 

It  seems  to  be  literally  and  not  figuratively  true  that  when 
we  love  or  hate,  are  joyous  or  sad,  feel  exalted  or  depressed, 
kindly  or  hatefully  disposed  toward  all  about  us,  and  are  intense 
about  it,  our  whole  being,  body  no  less  than  soul,  is  funda- 
mentally implicated.  Nor  does  Harvey  fail  to  let  us  know  how 
his  objective  discoveries  fitted  into  his  deeper  conceptions  of  life 
and  nature.  Two  aspects  of  his  researches  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  these  larger  problems.  One  was  his  study  of  the 
motion  of  the  heart;  the  other  his  reflections  on  the  blood  as 
the  vital  fluid  of  the  body.  The  high  water  mark  of  his  ability 


194  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

as  a  philosophic  biologist  is  reached,  I  think,  in  his  handling  of 
these  two  matters.  His  main  treatise,  entitled,  "An  Anatomical 
Disquisition  on  the  Motion  of  the  Heart  and  Blood  in  Animals," 
is  devoted  solely  to  an  accurate  and  full  description  of  the  struc- 
ture and  operation  of  the  blood  system.  Questions  4of  ultimate 
causes  and  reasons  he  hardly  touches  in  this  book  and  when 
he  does,  only  to  show  the  error  of  some-  prevalent  teaching. 
''Whether  or  not,"  he  says,  "the  heart,  besides  propelling  the 
blood,  giving  it  motion  locally  and  distributing  it  to  the  body, 
adds  anything  else  to  it, — heat,  spirit,  perfection, — must  be  in- 
quired into  by  and  by  and  decided  upon  other  grounds."  Obser- 
vable facts  first,  was  his  watchword.  Causal  explanations  and 
appraisements  of  value  must  come  afterwards. 

Two  things  in  his  ability  to  combine  observation  and  gener- 
alization are  supremely  important.  First,  he  did  not  for  an  in- 
stant waver  in  accepting  the  validity  and  the  worth  of  the  sen- 
suous elements  in  knowledge.  Socrates 's  grilling  dialectic  would 
never  have  wheedled  Harvey  into  admitting  that  there  was  no 
virtue  in  the  knowledge  he  had  acquired  of  the  structure  and 
movements  of  the  heart,  or  that  this  knowledge  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  sort  of  self-knowledge  that  saves  souls. 

The  other  notable  thing  in  Harvey's  mode  of  interpreting 
nature  was  his  insistence  on  a  certain  inherency  and  virtue  in 
each  object  itself.  He  gave  no  quarter  to  that  kind  of  explana- 
tion which  tries  to  refer  everything  wholly  to  something  else; 
which  is  always  assuming  that  the  final  and  real  essence  of  a 
sensible  object  is  something  behind  the  object  and  wholly  and 
forever  hidden  from  the  senses.  His  position  on  this  matter 
is  well  brought  out  in  a  treatise,  written  some  years  after  the 
publication  of  the  original  disquisition,  refuting  objections  that 
had  been  made  to  his  teaching  about  the  circulation.  Speaking 
of  the  old  theory  of  an  imponderable,  spirituous  something  in  the 
blood,  he  says:  "Physicians  seem  for  major  part  to  conclude, 
with  Hippocrates,  that  out  body  'is  compose* d  ...  of  three 
elements :  containing  parts,  contained  parts,  and  causes  of  action, 
spirits  being  understood  by  the  latter  term.  But  if  spirits  are 
to  be  taken  as  synonymous  with  causes  of  activity,  whatever  has 
f  power  in  the  living  body  and  a  faculty  of  action  must  be  in- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          195 

eluded  under  the  denomination.  It  would  appear,  therefore, 
that  all  spirits  were  neither  aerial  substances,  nor  powers,  nor 
habits,  nor  that  all  were  not  incorporeal.  .  .  .  The  spirits 
which  flow  by  the  veins  or  the  arteries  are  not  distinct  from  the 
blood,  any  more  than  the  flame  of  a  lamp  is  distinct  from  the 
inflammable  vapour  that  is  on  fire,  but  the  blood  and  these 
spirits  signify  one  and  the  same  thing  though  different — like 
generous  wine  and  its  spirits." 

This  reasoning  of  Harvey's  about  the  spirituous  qualities  of 
the  blood  is  not  materialism  as  some  careless  readers  would  take 
for  granted.  It  is  not  materialism  because  it  no  more  questions 
the  reality  of  spiritual  qualities,  that  is,  qualities  of  whatever 
sort  have  "power  in  the  living  body,"  than  it  questions  the 
reality  of  physical  qualities.  Blood,  notice,  not  "living  matter," 
is  what  Harvey  is  talking  about.  He  is  not  postulating  some- 
thing or  other  behind  blood  that  explains  its  life-Giving  at- 
tributes. Nor  has  the  vast  chemico-physical  knowledge  of  the 
blood  acquired  since  Harvey  worked  altered  one  whit  his  in- 
terpretation of  the  nature  of  blood.  And  his  mode  of  reasoning 
is  just  as  applicable  to  the  brain  as  to  the  blood. 

One  of  the  worst  misdemeanors  the  transcendental  physiology 
of  our  day  is  guilty  of,  is  the  application  of  the  term  epiphe- 
nomenon  to  consciousness. 

While  Harvey's  researches  on  the  blood  system  were  undoubt- 
edly far  and  away  his  best,  what  he  did  on  generation  can  not 
be  neglected  even  in  a  brief  review  of  his  contribution  to  man's 
knowledge  of  himself.  The  most  important  aspect  of  his  treat- 
ment of  this  subject  is  the  extent  to  which  he  compared  man 
with  other  organisms.  We  have  emphasized  the  fact  that  the  dis- 
covery of  the  circulation  was  a  preeminent  forward  step  in  man's 
perception  of  the  order,  the  unification  there  is  in  his  own 
individual  being.  The  studies  on  generation  coupled  with  those 
on  the  circulation  (for  whatever  subject  engaged  him,  Harvey 
never  neglected  to  compare  man  with  all  the  creatures  high  or 
low,  he  could  get  hold  of)  undoubtedly  contributed  greatly  to 
man 's  perception  of  himself  as  a  member  of  the  great  system  of 
the  living  world.  The  demonstration  of  the  circulation  was  a 
revelation  of  a  prime  unity  within  the  individual  man.  The 

14— S 


196  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

studies  on  generation,  while  resulting  in  no  single  discovery 
of  first  rank,  were  definitely  on  the  road  to  the  demonstrati  /m 
of  the  individual's  unity  with  organic  nature  as  a  whole.  "By 
the  same  stages  in  the  development  of  every  animal,"  he  said, 
"passing  through  the  constitutions  of  all,  I  may  say — ovum, 
worm,  embryo — it  acquires  additional  perfection  in  each."  He 
certainly  came  very  near  the  now  familiar  truth  that  the  egg 
is  the  starting  point  in  the  life  career  of  almost  all  animals. 

Is  it  not  obvious,  then,  that  by  the  end  of  the  great  era  we  are 
commemorating,  men  were  coming  to  see,  more  through  the  work 
of  Harvey  than  through  that  of  any  other  one  person.,  that  the 
ancient  motto,  Know  Thyself,  could  not  be  restricted  to  the 
temples  of  Religion  and  Philosophy,  but  must  be  placed  in  those 
of  Science  as  well? 

Now  as  to  whether  the  work  of  Shakespeare  likewise  contains 
evidence  of  a  growing  perception  of  the  essential  unity  between 
the  physical  and  the  spiritual.  The  poet  seems  to  be  the  pre- 
eminently skilled  guesser  of  the  human  species.  He  is  endowed 
above  all  others  with  the  faculty  of  apprehending  from  afar 
the  hidden  truths  of  nature.  Not  in  imagination  only,  but  in 
the  quality  of  sense  perception  is  he  superior  to  other  men. 
He  seems  to  know  what  is  "in  the  air"  of  his  time  better  than 
anybody  else. 

To  Shakespeare  man  was  the  most  absorbingly  interesting  of 
all  animals.  He  regarded  his  fellows,  not  as  problems  to  be 
minutely  investigated,  but  as  creatures  to  be  watched  for  the 
purpose  of  guessing  what  they  would  do  under  hypothetical 
conditions. 

Just  what  sort  of  mixture  of  the  natural  and  supernatural 
the  animal  is  which  interested  him  so  supremely,  seems  always 
to  have  puzzled  Shakespeare.  That  he  could  make  Macbeth, 
about  as  unmitigated  a  piece  of  human  animality  as  can  be 
imagined,  scare  the  Spirits  into  telling  him  what  he  wanted 
to  know  by  threatening  them  with  an  eternal  curse,  illustrates 
the  puzzled  state  of  his  understanding.  But  on  the  whole  it 
appears  that  not  only  did  Shakespeare  find  the  natural  the  dis- 
tinctly larger  ingredient  in  the  mixture,  but  that  as  he  grew  in 
experience  and  insight,  he  saw  more  and  more  of  the  natural 
and  saw  its  meaning  more  clearly. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          197 

From  Venus  and  Adonis,  one  of  his  earliest  productions,  to 
The  Tempest,  one  of  his  latest,  I  seem  to  find  a  distinct  advance 
in  this  matter.  Possibly  my  interpretation  of  Prospero  is  forced 
into  conformity  with  my  preconceptions;  but  does  not  his  setting 
free  of  Ariel  and  Caliban,  half-natural  beings  upon  whom  he  had 
relied  for  some  of  his  wonder-working,  and  his  abjuring  of  "this 
rough  magic,"  and  his  breaking  of  "my  staff"  and  burying  it 
"certain  fathoms  in  the  earth",  as  he  attains  the  highest  level 
of  forgivenness  and  well-wishing  toward  those  who  had  wronged 
him,  mean  that  only  when  he  became  a  man  and  a  man  only, 
was  he  at  his  best? 

One  of  the  most  useful  bits  of  Shakespearean  philosophy  I 
have  come  upon  is  contained  in  the  advice  of  Prospero  to  the 
King  of  Naples,  who  is  perplexed  because  there  "is  more  in  this 
business  than  nature  was  ever  conduct  of." 

"Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business;  at  picked  leisure 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you, 
Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable,  of  every 
These  happened  accidents;  till  then,  be  cheerful 
And  think  of  each  thing  well." 

Before  you  jump  beyond  the  bounds  of  nature  for  the  explana- 
tion of  things  that  are  hard  and  strange,  think  well  and  cheer- 
fully on  each  i^em  and  decide  which  of  the  several  possible  ex- 
planations is  the  one  most  probable.  What  more  wholesome 
counsel  was  ever  given !  I  am  sure  Socrates  never  advised  more 
wisely. 

So  I  think  we  must  conclude  that  this  supreme  poet,  too,  helped 
to  convince  man  that  if  he  would  really  know  himself,  he  must' 
know  himself  as  a  physical  as  well  as  a  spiritual  being.  The  an- 
cient injunction  must  be  adopted  in  the  temples  of  Poesy  and 
all  Art  no  less  than  in  those  of  Philosophy  and  Religion  and 
Science. 

What,  finally,  is  our  era  contributing  to  man's  understand- 
ing of  himself?  What  does — what  must — the  injunction  mean 
in  the  light  of  modern  knowledge  ?  Under  the  necessity  of  being 


198  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

brief  we  will  limit  the  inquiry  to  the  realm  of  objective  science, 
and  will  notice  six  great  achievements  during  the  three  hundred 
years  since  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  which  seem  to  me  of  special 
importance  in  their  bearing  on  the  question.  These  are:  (1) 
the  formulation  of  the  law  of  gravitation ;  ( 2 )  the  discovery  of 
the  conservation  of  matter  and  energy;  (3)  the  demonstration 
of  the  absolute  dependence  of  living  beings  on  a  few  well-known 
non-living  chemical  substances;  (4)  the  demonstration  that  both 
individual  living  beings  and  kinds,  or  species  of  such  beings, 
originate  from  other  individuals  and  species,  and  so  far  as  can 
be  made  out,  that  they  originate  in  no  other  way;  (5)  the 
demonstration  of  the  enormously  wide,  if  not  the  universal, 
prevalence  in  the  living  world  of  individual  specifity,  so  deep- 
seated  as  to  implicate  much  of  the  individual's  chemico-physical 
constitution ;  and  finally  ( 6 ) ,  the  demonstration  by  anthropology, 
in  all  the  human  race  so  far  rigorously  investigated,  of  the 
whole  range  of  major  attributes,  physical  and  spiritual,  that  are 
characteristic  of  the  species.  These  achievements  of  science  I 
count  not  necessarily  as  the  most  important  from  all  points  of 
view,  but  only  from  their  bearing  on  the  problem  of  the  funda- 
mental unity  or,  as  it  seems  to  me  better  expressed,  integrated- 
ness,  of  the  individual  man ;  and  of  the  fundamental  integrated- 
ness  among  the  individuals  of  the  species  man  and  of  the  species 
with  nature  generally. 

(1)  Let  gravitation  stand  as  the  type  of  physical  integration, 
and  let  us  remember  that  we  have  absolutely  no  experiential 
ground  on  which  to  base  a  speculation  as  to  how  *any  one  of  the 
myriads  of  bodies  in  the  universe  would  behave  were  it  entirely 
alone.     The  very  terms  in  which  the  law  is  stated  implies  at 
least  two  bodies  without  an  intimation  that  either  is  more  im- 
portant, more  ancient,  or  more  causal  than  the  other.     Each  not 
only  moves  but  exists  in  virtue  of  the  existence  of  the  other. 
And  do  not  neglect  to  notice  that  man  is  no  less  subject  to  the 
law  than  is  any  other  body. 

(2)  The  law  of  conservation  practically  implies  transforma- 
tion coextensively  with  conservation.     It  would  be  meaningless 
without  transformation.     Evolution,  taken  in  the  most  general 
sense,  is  but  another  form  of  statement  of  the  laws  of  transfer- 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          199 

mation  and  conservation.  Gravitation  is  a  universal  law  of 
support  for  bodies,  while  transformation  is  a  universal  law  of 
the  origin  of  bodies. 

(3)  The  dependence  of  living  beings  on  chemical  substances 
is  only  a  special  case  of  the  general  law  of  transformation  and 
conservation;  but  the  discovery  of  it  merits  inclusion  in  our 
list  of  science's  prime  achievements  because  of  its  great  import- 
ance to  the  problem  of  man's  dependence  upon  nature. 

Concerning  the  origin  of  individuals  and  species,  the  transfor- 
mations involved  are  of  two  radically  different  sorts.  First, 
there  is  the  sort  known  as  organic  evolution,  which  does  not 
consist  in  a  literal  transformation  of  parent  into  offspring,  that 
is,  in  a  changing  over  of  parent  into  offspring  without  loss  of 
weight  as  one  physical  or  chemical  body  changes  into  another, 
but  rather  in  a  growth  of  the  derived  individual  or  species  from 
a  small  portion  of  the  parent.  And  second,  this  growth  is  ac- 
complished by  the  transformation  of  foreign  substances  into  the 
growing  organism  through  the  nutritive  process. 

(5)  The  far-reaching  facts  of  what  I  have  called  individual 
specificity  among  organisms  have  only  lately  come  clearly  to 
light,  and  even  yet  their  significance  is  but  vaguely  seen.  In 
the  middle  and  later  years  of  the  last  century,  biologists  talked 
much  about  Protoplasm,  written  with  a  capital  P,  the  assump- 
tion being  that  there  is  one  simple  substance  common  to  all 
life.  But  the  capital  P  has  gradually  disappeared  from  scien- 
tific writing,  for  we  are  learning  that  each  species  and  individual 
has  its  own  particular  protoplasm.  Similarly  the  notion  was 
formerly  prevalent  that  germ  cells  of  animals  are  "  practically 
alike."  But  closer  scrutiny  has  revealed  the  fallacy  of  this 
idea.  We  now  know  that  the  germs  of  different  organisms  are 
in  their  fundamentals  as  different  from  one  another  as  are  the 
full-grown  organisms;  and  we  view  the  egg  from  which  an  in- 
dividual animal  grows  as  that  individual  in  the  one-celled  stage 
of  its  life. 

Do  you  not  perceive  something  of  the  important  difference 
of  viewpoint  here?  If  from  the  simplest  and  earliest  stage  of 
its  existence,  each  individual  is  to  some  extent  different  from 
every  other,  it  is  so  far  self -responsible  for  its  own  future  de- 


200  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

velopment  and  activity.  Growing  at  the  expense  of  the  few  in- 
organic  substances  which  are  the  common  bounty  of  all  living 
beings,  it  and  it  alone  must  have  the  ability  to  transform  the 
common  substances  into  its  own  special  substances.  Each  organ- 
ism is  indeed  a  chemico-physical  machine,  if  one  chooses  so  to 
call  it,  but  it  is  a  particular  machine — in  deepest  meaning  a  self, 
for  it  has  an  essential  part  in  its  own  making  and  in  the  pres- 
ervation of  its  own  identity.  The  supreme  significance  of  mod- 
ern biology  to  philosophy  is  the  establishment  of  both  the  in- 
violability of  the  individual  and  the  interdependences  within 
and  among  individuals,  as  never  before  have  these  truths  been 
established. 

(6)  Another  set  of  facts  which  science  has  only  recently 
brought  home  to  us  is  the  universality  in  the  human  species  how- 
ever low  in  culture,  racially  or  individually,  of  at  least  the 
rudiments  of  all  those  attributes  which  chaiacterize  the  highest 
of  the  species.  Although  increase  of  information  in  one  quarter 
has  continually  strengthened  belief  in  the  origin  of  man  from 
some  lower  animal,  accumulation  of  knowledge  in  another  quar- 
ter has  completely  annihilated  belief  that  there  is  on  earth  now  or 
for  milleniums  has  been  a  being  even  approximately  transitional 
between  man  and  beast-.  All  the  races  whose  culture  we  know 
anything  positive  about  are  indubitably  men.  The  existence  of 
highly  elaborated  language,  and  of  at  least  the  beginnings  of 
social  institutions  and  laws,  poetry,  delineative  art,  religion,  and 
reasoning  about  nature,  among  all  people  to  which  science  has 
had  access,  has  put  a  quietus  forever  on  the  old  notion  that 
certain  primitive  races  are  "hardly  human" — are  "little,  if  at 
all  above  the  beasts  of  the  field" — are  "without  souls." 

A  fact  the  significance  of  which  seems  not  to  have  been  dwelt 
upon  by  writers  on  morals  is  that  anthropologists  who  study 
primitive  races  long  and  closely  in  their  homes  always,  so  far 
as  I  have  observed,  come  to  have  a  much  higher  regard  for  these 
races  than  chance  acquaintance  suggests.  And  frequently  this 
regard  ripens  into  genuine  esteem,  even  affection.  Inquiry  into 
this  matter  ought  to  yield  interesting  results.  Is  the  affection 
which  grows  up  between  the  investigator  and  the  savage  whom 
he  studies  merely  that  which  the  owner  of  a  pet  dog  or  cat 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          201 

or  horse  has  for  his  chattel,  or  is  it  more  akin  to  the  affection  of 
friend  for  friend?  Which  cares  more  genuinely  for  nature 
people,  the  missionary  who  lives  among  them  to  save  them  for 
a  future  world,  or  the  scientist  who  lives  with  them  in  order  that 
he  may  know  them?  Is  the  missionary  ever  really  successful 
until  he  comes  to  have  a  genuine  interest  in  his  people  as 
physical  beings — a  genuine  solicitude  for  their  physical  as  well 
as  for  their  spiritual  welfare?  I  suspect  that  some  of  the 
strongest  practical  evidence  there  is  in  favor  of  the  doctrine  of 
the  "brotherhood  of  man"  is  in  the  intelligent  affection  which 
grows  up  between  highly  cultured  Caucasians  who  live  long 
and  intimately  among  primitive  peoples  for  the  purpose  of  know- 
ing them  and  helping  them. 

One  of  the  significant  things  about  the  humanness  of  nature 
peoples  is  the  seeming  coincidence  of  the  main  categories  of 
human  faculty.  There  appears  to  be  no  observational  evidence 
that  some  one  or  a  few  of  these  attributes  are  more  primitive 
than  all  the  others  and  gave  birth  to  the  others.  There  is,  for 
example,  no  proof  that  rationality  preceded  and  produced  the 
esthetic,  the  social,  and  the  religious  instincts;  or  per  contra. 
It  seems  that  all  these  must  have  emerged  together  or  nearly 
so,  and  that  they  must  have  always  been.closely  interlocked  and 
interdependent. 

The  evidence  as  to  the  exact  manner  of  man's  origin  con- 
tains much  that  is  conflicting  and  exceedingly  puzzling.  The 
situation  is  certainly  one  in  which  Prospero's  advice  to  Alonzo 
is  in  order.  It  calls  for  careful,  cheerful  search  for  what  is 
most  probable  rather  than  for  dogged  defence  of  some  theory 
held  as  though  it  were  absolute  and  sufficient  truth. 

Does  this  meager  narative  of  the  achievements  of  science  which 
bear  on  the  problem  of  man's  nature  and  his  place  in  nature 
fail  to  convince  you  that  science  has  something  basal  and  indis- 
pensable to  contribute  to  man's  understanding  of  himself?  Is 
there  any  question  that  the  injunction  of  old  should  have  a  place 
in  the  temples  of  Science  as  well  as  in  those  of  Philosophy  and 
Religion  and  Art? 

What  bearing  has  the  argument  presented  on  the  transcendent 
question  of  how  men  and  nations  should  treat  one  .another— 


2Q2  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

should  behave  toward  one  another  ?  Among  the  teachings  about 
the  nature  of  morality  that  have  been  potent  in  the  history  of 
mankind,  here  is  one  which  says  that  "the  world  itself  is  a  moral 
order — that  all  things  work  together  for  Good  whether  you  love 
the  Lord  or  not.  I  hope  you  see  that  the  conceptions  sketched 
this  morning  resemble  this  teaching  more  than  any  other  with 
which  you  are  familiar.  But  I  hope  you  see  also  wherein  they 
differ  from  it.  That  nature  is  moral  I  do  not  contend — I  do 
not  believe.  So  much  destruction  and  suffering  and  death  are 
brought  upon  man  by  flood,  earthquake,  pestilence  and  the  rest, 
as  to  make  this  personified  view  of  nature  untenable.  What  I 
do  say  is  that  man  as  biology  knows  him,  no  less  than  as  theology 
and  philosophy  know  him,  is  a  moral  thing.  Notice  1  do  not 
say  he  is  necessarily  a  good  being.  "What  I  mean  is  that  he  is  a 
being  who  consciously  estimates  his  reciprocal  acts  with  his 
fellow's  as  good  or  bad  and  by  this  is  moral.  But  since  nature 
produces  and  sustains  man,  it  must  be  so  constituted  that  it 
can  produce  and  sustain  moral  beings.  I  am  judging  nature  in 
strict  accordance  with  the  laws  of  natural  production  as  obser- 
vational knowledge  finds  them.  An  essential  element  in  the  law 
of  organic  genesis  is  that  the  germ  plus  its  environment  is  suffi- 
cient to  account  for  the  completed  organism.  And  this  law  is 
but  a  special  case  of  the  general  law  that  everything  found  in 
an  effect  is  implicit  in  its  causes.  This  commonplace  is  brought 
forward  to  use  as  a  stepping  stone  to  what  is  not  a  commonplace : 
by  examining  nature  broadly  as  we  have  tried  to  this  morning, 
we  are  able  to  see  something  of  what  there  is  in  her  constitu- 
tion that  enables  her  to  produce  moral  beings.  It  is  exactly  that 
fundamental  originative  and  sustentative  interdependence  among 
the  parts,  that  basal  integratedness  of  nature  upon  which  we 
have  discoursed,  that  endows  her  with  this  sort  of  creative  power. 
To  summarize :  Scrutiny  of  the  human  species  in  the  manner 
that  descriptive  biology  scrutinizes  all  living  things  discovers 
this  species  to  have  certain  very  peculiar  attributes:  desire  for 
companionship,  sympathy  with  the  unfortunate  and  the  fort- 
unate, a  sense  of  dependence  upon  and  obligation  to  others,  love 
of  kindred  and  non-kindred,  and  so  on.  The  possession  of  these 
attributes  marks  the  species  as  not  merely  gregarious,  but  in  the 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          203 

deepest  sense  social.  Out  of  the  observation  and  personal  ex- 
perience of  these  attributes  in  their  best  development  there  has 
grown  the  conception  that  the  members  of  the  species  consti- 
tute a  brotherhood.  And  notice  that  the  fact  that  each  of  these 
attributes  has  its  antithesis  does  not  in  the  least, affect  the  es- 
sential point  before  us.  Day  is  no  less  day  because  there  is 
also  night.  The  social  feelings  one  possesses  are  none  the  1'ess 
positive  because  of  unsocial  feelings  one  may  also  possess.  'Love 
is  none  the  less  love  because  hate  exists. 

The  historic  doctrine  of  human  brotherhood  grew  out  of  these 
germinal  feelings  of  man.  Speculation  as  to  the  origin  and  sanc- 
tion of  these  feelings  has  usually  been  sought,  especially  in  the 
Western  world,  beyond  nature.  But  now  in  these  later  centu- 
ries comes  science  to  demonstrate  the  physical  counterpart  of  the 
spiritual  doctrine  of  brotherhood. 

And  now  the  final  word:  If  ever  we  mortals  attain  to  true 
self-wisdom,  wisdom  that  is  not  alone  saving  but  creative  of 
Self,  we  shall  win  it  by  devoutly  seeking  in  the  temples  of 
Religion,  Art,  and  Science  alternately.  No  man  can  become  wise 
unto  eternal  life  by  worshipping  in  one  kind  of  temple  only. 

And  when  such  wisdom  shall  be  reached,  each  self  will  have 
become  conscious  that  he  himself  is  because  other  Selves  are. 
Each  Self  will  know  that  however  much  of  struggle  ending  in 
triumph  or  defeat,  however  much  of  ambition,  mean  or  noble, 
enter  into  the  great  drama  of  human  life,  it  is  all  only  a  part 
of  the  stupendous  totality  of  things,  the  supreme  glory  of  which 
is,  so  far  as  positive  knowledge  can  reach,  that  it  has  produced 
and  is  producing  man  not  only  at  his  worst,  but  also  at  his  best. 


THE  SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY  COMMEMORATION  AT  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  TEXAS 

Formal  preparation  for  the  Shakespeare  Tercentenary  Com- 
memoration at  the  University  of  Texas  began  when  Professor 
R.  H.  Griffith  offered  a  motion  at  a  meeting  of  the  General 
Faculty  in  the  spring  of  1915  that  a  committee  of  five  be  ap- 
pointed to  prepare  and  have  presented  a  suitable  program. 
The  vote  upon  the  motion  was  unanimous  in  its  favor.  Doctor 
Battle,  Acting  President,  appointed  as  the  committee  Messrs. 
Fay,  Barker,  Lomax,  Young,  and  Griffith  (chairman).  Upon 
the  resignation  of  Mr.  Young  from  the  University  shortly  after- 
wards, his  place  was  supplied  by  Mr.  Richards.  At  a  meeting 
early  in  the  summer  the  chairman  was  empowered  to  act  for 
the  committee. 

The  program  decided  upon  planned  a  series  of  exercises  on 
a  much  larger  scale  than  had  ever  before  been  attempted  at  this 
University.  First,  there  were  to  be  commemoration  exercises 
on  the  campus  in  April  of  1916.  Later,  a  memorial  volume,  con- 
taining addresses  and  essays,  was  to  be  published.  The  present 
volume  is  the  accomplishment  of  the  latter  half  of  the  plans. 
The  warm  commendation  in  the  accounts  of  the  April  events 
published  by  both  local  and  out-of-town  newspapers  attests  the 
complete  success  of  the  first  half. 

The  committee  could  and  did  arrange  for  addresses  from  dis- 
tinguished visiting  scholars,  for  outdoor  plays  by  a  professional 
troupe,  for  an  exhibit  of  Shakespearean  books,  maps,  prints, 
and  pictures — all  for  the  delight  and  instruction  of  students 
and  faculty.  Addresses  were  delivered  by  Professor  John  M. 
Manly,  of  the  University  of  Chicago ;  Professor  Barrett  Wendell, 
of  Harvard  University;  Judge  R.  L.  Batts,  of  Austin;  and 
Professor  William  E.  Ritter,  of  the  Scrips  Biological  Labora- 
tory, La  Jola,  California.  In  the  foregoing  pages  are  printed 
these  addresses,  together  with  articles  contributed  by  friendly 
scholars,  former  instructors,  and  present  members  of  the  staff 
of  the  University  of  Texas. 

[204] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          205 

But  beyond  these  it  was  deemed  highly  desirable  to  arrange 
a  portion  of  the  program  in  which  faculty  and  students  should 
be  actors,  not  merely  spectators.  A  beginning  was  made  with 
the  department  of  athletics  for  women.  For  several  years  pre- 
ceding, it  had  given  a  spring  exhibition  of  games,  exercises,  and 
dances.  For  1916  it  was  willing,  as  a  substitute,  to  take  a  part 
in  the  Commemoration  program.  Then  a  dozen  sections  from 
the  freshman  class  of  the  men's  gymnasium  were  invited  to 
join  the  girls  in  preparing  folk  dances.  Thus  the  first  half  of 
the  program  for  the  night  of  April  22  was  arranged  for.  For 
the  remaining  part  a  Bartholomew  Fair  scene  was  devised,  and 
Phi  Alpha  Tau,  a  society  composed  of  members  selected  from 
the  various  dramatic  and  debating  clubs  of  the  University, 
agreed  to  undertake  its  preparation.  In  these  two  groups 
nearly  a  thousand  students  were  included.  The  resulting  com- 
bination of  lights,  music,  color,  and  action — a  goodly  proportion 
even  of  the  thousands  of  spectators  came  in  Elizabethan  cos- 
tume— was  a  spectacle  of  beauty  and  gaiety. 

Active  participation  for  the  remaining  students  and  for  the 
faculty  had  to  be  arranged  for.  The  chairman  sought  the 
advice  and  assistance  of  a  committee  of  ladies,  some  of  them 
wives  of  professors,  some  members  of  the  faculty,  some  friends 
of  the  University  of  long  standing.  A  pageant  procession  was 
decided  on.  One  who  has  had  no  experience  with  such  an  under- 
taking can  have  little  conception  of  the  immense  amount  of 
work  a  pageant  entails.  To  the  ladies  who  assumed  this  whole 
burden  and  whose  names  are  gratefully  recorded  in  the  subse- 
quent committee  lists,  the  general  committee  and  the  whole 
University  community  owes  a  debt  of  thanks.  They  evolved  a 
system  of  subdividing  the  students  and  faculty  into  groups;  of 
assigning  to  each  unit  a  play  of  Shakespeare  to  impersonate,  or  a 
period  of  his  life  to  represent ;  of  providing  troupes  of  minstrels 
to  sing  glees  en  route,  and  bands  of  halberdiers  to  keep  clear 
the  line  of  march.  They  designed  perspectives  and  proportions, 
schemes  of  color  and  tints  for  each  unit  and  for  the  procession 
as  a  whole :  they  studied  numerous  books  and  prints,  drew  and 
colored  historically  accurate  pictures  of  old-time  costumes,  and 
posted  dozens  of  them  on  the  bulletin  boards.  They  bought  and 


206  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

sold  at  wholesale  prices  materials  for  hats  and  suits ;  they  prac- 
tically card-catalogued  every  dress-maker  in  Austin,  and  mobil- 
ized women  and  machines  for  the  making  of  hundreds  of 
costumes;  they  even  went  into  the  chemical  laboratory  and 
dyed  scores  of  pairs  of  stockings  to  secure  just  the  right  shade. 
Their  reward  for  it  all  was  the  brilliant  parade  in  the  late 
afternoon  of  Saturday,  April  22. 

In  divers  fashions  Town  joined  with  Gown  for  the  Com- 
memoration. Wednesday  afternoon  the  campus  was  given  over 
to  a  thousand  children  from  three  of  the  ward  schools  for  their 
folk-dances  and  fairy-playing.  Sunday  night  many  of  the  city 
ministers,  adopting  a  suggestion  of  the  committee,  gave  the 
Tercentenary  a  place  in  their  sermons.  And  the  women's  clubs 
and  a  large  number  of  Austin  ladies  not  directly  associated 
with  the  University  were  patronesses  of  our  Commemoration, 
entering  so  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  it  as  to  make  and  wear 
such  costumes  as  the  old  Globe  Theatre  itself  must  many  a 
time  have  seen. 

Our  April  days  were  a  gala  season  most  successful  and  long 
to  be  remembered. 


itmitfltt  nf  %  (tt0mm?m0raium 

THE  COMMITTEE  OF  THE  FACULTY 

PROFESSOR  R.  H.  GRIFFITH,  Chairman 

PROFESSOR  EDWIN  W.  FAY         PROFESSOR  EUGENE  C.  BARKER 
MR.  JOHN  A.  LOMAX  DOCTOR  AUTE  RICHARDS 

EDITORIAL    COMMITTEE 

PROFESSOR  JAMES  F.  ROYSTER 
PROFESSOR  JOHN  T.  PATTERSON  PROFESSOR  A.  C.  JUDSON 

BUSINESS  MANAGER 

L.  THEO  BELMONT,  Director  of  Athletics 

DIRECTOR   OF    THE    LIBRARY   EXHIBIT 

JOHN  E.  GOODWIN,  Librarian 

DIRECTORS    OF    MUSIC 

PROFESSOR  FRANK:  L.  REED 
MB.  GEORGE  HOLMES  MRS.  J.  A.  DEHAAS 

DIRECTOR  OF  LIGHTING 

PROFESSOR  S.  LEROY  BROWN 

LADIES    ADVISORY    COMMITTEE 

PROFESSOR  MARY  E.  GEARING 

MRS.  R.  H.  GRIFFITH  MRS.  SPURGEON  BELL, 

Miss  MARGARET  BOROUGHS  MRS.  J.  F.  ROYSTER 

Miss  HALLIE  WALKER  MRS.  A.  C.  ELLIS 

MRS.  S.  E.  GIDEON  MRS.  J.  B.  WHAREY 

MRS.  L.  H.  HANEY  MRS.  H.  W.  PECK 

Miss  MATTIE  LOCKETT  Miss  ANNA  MUCKELROY 

Miss  EUNICE  ADEN  .  Miss  E.  C.  MEGUIAR 

Miss  F.  A.  SIMMS 
[207] 


208 


University  of  Texas  Bulletin 


STUDENTS    ADVISORY    COMMITTEE 


MR.  W.  R.  ALLEN 
MR.  M.  A.  KNIGHT 
MR.  GEORGE  HEXTER 
MR.  BUFORD  JESTER 
MR.  FLOYD  SMITH 
MR.  J.  R.  PARTEN 


MR.  E.  B.  NAUGLE 
MR.  HUBERT  JONES 
MR.  P.  S.  CLARKE 
MR.  R.  VANDER  STRATEN 
MR.  N.  E.  TRAVERS 


DIRECTORS    OF    THE    PAGEANT    PROCESSION 

MRS.  R.  H.  GRIFFITH,   Chairman 
MRS.  J.  F.  ROYSTER,  English  Unit 

MRS.  E.  W.  PATTERSON,  Law  Unit 

Miss  HAZEL  HORNSBY,  Engineering  Unit 

MRS.  E.  T.  MILLER,  Social  Sciences  Unit 
MRS.  E.  P.  SCHOCH,  Natural  Sciences  Unit 

Miss  LUCILE  M.  RAWLINS,  Education  Unit 

Miss  ANN  E.  RICHARDSON,  Domestic  Economy  Unit 
MRS.  J.  A.  DEHAAS  J  Business  Training  and 
MRS.  A.  L.  GREEN     (  Journalism  Unit 
Miss  ROBERTA  LAVENDER,  Ancient  Languages  Unit 
Miss  HILDA  NORMAN,  Modern  Languages  Unit 
Miss  MATTIE  LOCKETT,  "Cap  and  Gown"  Unit 

DIRECTORS    OF    FOLK    DANCES 

Miss  EUNICE  ADEN  Miss  LOUISE  H.  WRIGHT 

MR.  ROY  B.  HENDERSON 

DIRECTOR    OF    AESTHETIC    DANCES 

Miss  ANNIE  LEE  COSBY 

DESIGNERS    OF    COSTUMES 


Miss  FANNIE  A.  SIMS 
MRS.  H.  W.  PECK 


Miss  ELIZABETH  C.  MEGUIAR 
MR.  S.  E.  GIDEON 


Miss  ANNA  MUCKELROY 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey          209 

DESIGNER  OF  ELIZABETHAN  MENU 

Miss  JENNIE  R.  BEAR 

GENEROUS    PURVEYORS    OF    COSTUME    MATERIALS 

SCABBROUGH   &   SONS  McKJEAN,    ElLERS   &    Co. 

Of  Austin 

SANGER  BROTHERS 
Of  Dallas 


UmuerHttij  of  Qfcxas 


APRIL  22  TO  26 

1916 

AUSTIN,  TEXAS 


FOUR  ADDRESSES,  POUR  OUTDOOR  PLAYS,  FOUR  MUSICAL 
ORGANIZATIONS,  TWO  SOLOISTS,  A  SHAKESPEARE 
PAGEANT,   AN   ELIZABETHAN   REVEL,   A   LI- 
BRARY EXHIBIT 


15— S 


A  !$>ljakesppare  flagrant 

©n  tlj?  Htttwrsttg  Qlrmpua 


Sterultg  aufc 
At  &\x  aUflrt    GTrlork 


1.  Shakespeare  as   a   Twelve  Year   Old   Boy   at   Kenilworth 

Castle English,  General  Literature,  and 

Public  Speaking  Unit. 

2.  London  Life    . Law  Unit. 

3.  Merchant   of  Venice Law  Unit. 

4.  Hamlet Selected  Unit. 

5.  Midsummer  Night 's  Dream Business  Training 

and  Journalism  Unit. 
<6.     Julius  Caesar Ancient  Languages  Unit. 

7.  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor Social  Sciences  Unit. 

8.  Winter's  Tale Domestic  Economy  Unit. 

9.  As  You  Like  It Natural  Sciences  Unit. 

10.  Richard  III Education  Unit 

11.  Taming  of  the  Shrew Modern  Languages  Unit. 

12.  Shakespeare's  Women Cap  and  Gown  Society  Unit. 

Shakespeare  and  Bacon 
Bands  of  Minstrel  Singers  Glee  Club  and  Associates. 

The  route  of  the  Pageant  is  along  certain  Campus  walks. 
Spectators  will  please  KEEP  OFF  ALL  WALKS. 

The  twelve  units  appear  three  minutes  apart. 

At  advantageous  spots  each  unit  will  pause  for  a  tableau. 

Each  stopping  point  is  marked  by  a  flag. 

Every  unit  pauses  before  each  flag. 

The  tableau  of  the  first  unit  is  from  the  Revel  at  Kenilworth 
Castle  in  honor  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1576;  Shakespeare  as  a 
12-year-old  lad  is  supposed  to  have  been  present.  The  London 
Life  tableau  is  a  Mermaid  Tavern  gathering  of  Shakespeare  and 
his  contemporaries.  The  tableau  of  each  drama  is  a  typical 
moment  of  the  play.  Shakespearer 's  Women  do  honor  to  him 

as  their  creator. 

[212] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey        213 

The  bands  of  minstrels  march  between  units,  singing  old 
English  ballad-songs:  "As  I  Walked  through  the  Meadows/' 
"My  Man  John,"  "The  Coasts  of  Barbary,"  "Midsummer 
Fair,"  "The  Brisk  Young  Widow,"  "The  Keys  of  Canterbury," 
"Green  Broom,"  "Tree  in  the  Wood,"  "As  I  Sat  on  Sunny 
Bank,"  "Bingo." 

Leave  a  clear  space  about  each  flag.     Keep  off  all  walks. 

Automobiles  banked  along  Guadalupe  between  21st  and  23rd 
Streets  will  be  excellently  located. 

Tlie  Pageant  looks  its  prettiest  at  a  distance  of  from  100  to 
600  feet.  " 


program 

Att  Eltxabrtljan  %?tt*l 

©n  ffllark  3tefo 
At  iEtW  (Trlnrk 


PART  THE  FIRST 

THE    DANCES 

Shakespeare  has  reached  the  age  of  about  fifty.  He  is  now 
ready  to  retire  from  the  stage.  Before  him  appear  a  crowd  of 
the  folk  to  show  in  folk-dances  their  appreciation  of  his  plays. 
They  retire,  and  are  succeeded  by  the  Muses  and  Goddesses,  who 
2ome  to  receive  back  from  the  great  author  the  gifts  they  had 
endowed  him  with  at  his  birth.  In  symbolical  dances  they  in- 
dicate what  those  gifts  are,  their  satisfaction  with  his  use  of 
';hem,  and  their  acceptance  of  them,  now  that  he  is  near  the  end 
)f  his  life. 

THE  FOLK  DANCES 

BY 

THE  FIRST-YEAR   ATHLETIC  STUDENTS 

I.     Morris  Dance,  "Laudnum  Bunches." 

II.     Sailor's  Hornpipe. 

Representing  the  round  of  a  sailor's  duties — hauling  in 

anchor,  hoisting  sail,  swinging  anchor,  etc. 
[II.     Ribbon  Dance,  a  Contra  Dance. 


[214] 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey        215 
THE  AESTHETIC,  SYMBOLICAL  DANCES       • 


BY 


THE  ADVANCED  DANCING  CLASS 

I.     The  Nine  Muses.          Chopin's  "Grande  Valse  Brillante." 

First  in  a  solo,  then  in  a  group. 

Misses  Estelle  Goldstein,  Josephine  Taylor,  Frances  Clark, 
Wortley  Harris,  Josephine  Betchel,  Helen  Mobley,  Mary 
Ked,  Ruth  Rose,  Louisa  Keasbey. 

The  costumes  of  the  group  as  a  whole  represent  the  rain- 
bow, and  each  Muse  carries  the  symbol  of  her  own  art. 
Their  gift  was  all  knowledge  to  be  his  province. 

II.     Iris.  Grieg's  "Humoresque  in  Valse   Time." 

Miss  Agnes  Doran. 

The  costume  is  again  rainbow  hued,  for  Iris  means  the 
rainbow.  Iris  is  the  messenger  of  the  Goddesses.  Her 
gift  was  hope. 

III.     Juno,  Queen  of  Heaven.     Chopin's  "Military  polonaise." 

Miss  Katherine  Peers. 

Royal  purple  with  white  staff.  Attendants,  in  purple 
with  staves.  Juno  gave  the  master  dominion  over  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  men. 

IV.  Minerva,  Goddess  of  Wisdom. 

Weber's  "Invitation  to  the  Dance." 
Miss  Florence  Bell. 

Gray  and  rose;  a  shield  with  Medusa's  heart  on  it.  At- 
tendants, in  blue  and  rose  with  shields.  Minerva  gave 
power  to  understand  life  aright. 

V.  Ceres,  Deity  of  Plentiful  Harvest. 

Chopin's  "Nocturne  in  E  Flat  Major." 
Miss   Ginevra   Harris. 

Gold  and  yellow,  with  her  symbol  of  abundant  crops. 
Attendants,  with  baskets  of  fruit.  The  gift  of  Ceres 
was  ripeness  and  fullness  of  powers. 


216  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

VI.     Diana,  Huntress  of  Heaven  and  Goddess  of  Chastity. 

Schubert's  "Hunting  Song." 
Miss  Pearl  Zilker. 

Hunter's  green  with  bow  and  quiver.  Attendants,  in 
green  with  bows,  dance  to  Reinhardt's  "The  Chase." 
Diana  endowed  the  poet  with  modesty. 

VII.     (a)  Venus,  Goddess  of  Love. 

Mozkowski's  "Love's  Awakening." 
Miss  Annie  Louise  Stayton. 
Rose  and  pink  with  flowers. 

(b)  Cupid,  Son  of  Venus. 

Little  Miss  Frances  Tarlton. 

(c)  Fairies. 

A  group  of  children,  in  white  and  spangles. 
Attendants  of  Venus,  with  garlands  of  roses. 

VIII.     Ensemble  Finale. 

All  the  dancers  gather  before  Shakespeare.  The  God- 
desses and  Muses  approach  and  receive  back  the  gifts 
they  had  given.  All  kneel.  Shakespeare  breaks  his 
wand.  The  pageant  of  his  life  is  past. 


PART  THE  SECOND 

BARTHOLOMEW    FAIRE 

Management  of  the  Guild  of  Phi  Alpha  Tau 
Mr.  Floyd  Smith,  Master  of  the  Revels  to  her  Majesty 
I.     Old  English  Ballad  Songs. 

The  Glee  Club. 

II.     "From  Bartholomew  Faire  to  Shoreditch:"  A  Playlet 

Being  the  rough  course  travelled  over  by  the  corpulent 
Knight. 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey        217 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS: 

f 

Sir  John  Falstaff • Ben  Marable 

Dame  Quickly R.  L.  Sidles 

Justice Alva  Carlton 

Clerk  of  the  Court - Floyd  Smith 

Big  Bailiff Robert  McClelland 

Little  Bailiff Leslie  Etter 

Pistol    .  . .' Lewy  Dunn 

Bardolph   (in  pillory) . . . Carl  Galloway 

Yeomen,  witnesses,  court  crier,  and  much  people. 

RESUME.  Scene  opens  with  Falstaff  abusing  Dame  Quickly 
before  the  platform  on  which  Pie  Powder  Court  is  in  session. 
Arrested,  he  uses  his  wiles  to  conciliate  the  Hostess,  who  prays 
that  the  charge  against  her  lover  be  expunged.  The  Justice 
complies.  But  no  sooner  is  Dame  Quickly  off  to  get  withdrawn 
a  suit  previously  entered  at  Westminster  than  the  Justice  re- 
verses his  opinion  and  condemns  the  "woman  queller"  to  ax 
humiliating  punishment. 

After  the  trial  the  Court  adjourns  to 

III.  The  Mermaid  Tavern  :  Song  and  Cyder- 
Master  Shakespeare  Rex  Shaw- 
Ben  Jonson Arthur  Uhl' 

Master  Skylark,  cousin  to  Shakespeare Lewy  Dunni 

The  SPECTATORS  will  be  pleased  to  leave  their  seats  and 
accompany  the  Court  to  the  tavern  for  refreshments.  Be  sure 
to  see  each  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  Faire : — 

Puppet  Show.  Archery :  '  *  Target  in  the  Water. ' '  Bowling, 
on  the  Green.  Wrestling  Match.  The  Most  Wonderful  Cata- 
most.  The  Cock  Pit.  Bout  at  Quarterstaff.  Medicine  Vendor. 
The  Great  Shadow  Fight.  Fortune  Tellers.  And  all  other 
whatsoever. 


218  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 


'fi  program 

April  24,  1916 

MONDAY  MORNING,  APRIL  24 

12:00  O'CLOCK,  UNIVERSITY  AUDITORIUM 

General  Introduction  .................  President  W.  J.  Battle 

Ancient  Songs  :  .......................  The  University  Chorus 

"Who  Is  Sylvia?"  .......  Ravenscroft,  1614;  Morley,  1595 

"Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind"  ............  Dr.  Arne 

"Since  First  I  saw  your  Face"  ..............  Thos.  Ford. 

Introduction  of  the  Speaker  ...............  Prof.  J.  F.  Royster 

Shakespeare  Himself  "  ....................  Address  by  John 

Matthews  Manly,  Ph.  D.,  Head  of  the  Department  of  English, 
University  of  Chicago. 

MONDAY  AFTERNOON 

4:00  O'CLOCK,  UNIVERSITY  AUDITORIUM 


4.  i 


i  ( 


Shakespeare  in  Texas" Prof.  R.  A.  Law 

Ancient  Songs Mrs.  Charles  H.  Sander 

"Green  Sleeves" Ancient  Melody  from  W.  Bal- 
let's Lute  Book,  Composed  in  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII. 

"Heigh  ho!  for  a  Husband" From  John 

Gamble's  MS.  Common-Place  Book. 

Introduction  of  the  Speaker .Dean  H.  Y.  Benedict 

"Shakespeare,  Purveyor  to  the  Public" .  .Address  by  R.  L.  Batts 
United  States  Attorney,  Austin  and  New  York. 

MONDAY  EVENING 

7 :00  o  'CLOCK,  CAMPUS 
Outdoor  Concert The  University  Band 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey        219 

MONDAY  NIGHT 
8:30  O'CLOCK 

Outdoor  Play The  Devereux  Players 

TWELFTH  NIGHT 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

A  Sea  Captain Edgar  Ware 

Viola Ethel  Huyler  Gray 

Sir  Toby  Belch,  Uncle  to  Olivia Clifford  Devereux 

Maria,  Niece  to  Olivia Millicent  McLaughlin 

Sir  Andrew  Aguecheck,  His  Friend Henry  Buckler 

Orsino,  Duke  of  Illyria Dennis  Cleugh 

Curio,  Gentleman  attending  Orsino John  Jarrett 

Valentine,  A  Gentleman  attending  Orisino.  ....  .John  Gilchrist 

First  Lord Henry  Thomas 

Second  Lord Maurice  Ingram 

Feste,  A  Clown William  Podmore 

Olivia Adele  Klaer 

Malvolio,  Steward  to  Olivia Charles  Fleming 

Musician   Edmund  J.  Fitzpatrick 

Sebastian,  Brother  to  Viola Peter  Golden 

Antonio,  a  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Sebastian . .  Madef rey  Odhner 

Fabian,  Servant  to  Olivia John  Jarrett 

An  Officer Harold  Heath 

A  Priest  Burr  Chapman 

Musicians Felix  Rappo,  Salvotore  De  Salvo,  John  De  Salvo 

Characters  in  the  order  in  which  they  'speak. 
In  case  of  rain,  plays  will  be  staged  in  University  Auditorium. 


220  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

's  program 

Aprti  25,  1916 

TUESDAY  MORNING,  APRIL  25 

12:00  O'CLOCK,  UNIVERSITY  AUDITORIUM 

Ancient  Song The  Women 's  Chorus: 

"Under  the  Greenwood  Tree" Richards 

Elizabethan  Madrigal The  University  Chorus 

"Love  in  Prayers" C.  V.  Stanford  (1852) 

Ancient  words,  modern  music. 

Introduction  of  the  Speaker Prof.  Morgan  Callaway,  Jr. 

"The  Growth  of  Shakespeare" Address  by  Barrett 

Wendell,  Professor  of  English,  Harvard  University. 

TUESDAY  AFTERNOON 

3:30  O'CLOCK 

Outdoor  Play The  Devereux  Players; 

THE    CRITIC 

BY   RICHARD  BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

CHARACTERS  IN  ACT  I 

Mr.  Dangle Charles  Fleming 

Mrs.  Dangle Millicent  McLaughlin 

A  Servant Arthur  Barney 

Mr.  Sneed John  Gilchrist 

Sir  Fretful  Plagiary Henry  Buckler 

Mr.  Puff  .  .  .William  Podmore 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey         221 

CAST   OF    MB.    PUFF'S   TRAGEDY 

Prompter Harold  Heath 

Leader  of  Orchestra John  De  Salvo 

First  Sentinel Edmund  J.  Fitzpatrick 

Second  Sentinel Burr  Chapman 

Sir  Shristopher  Hatton Madefrey  Odhner 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh John  Jarrett 

Earl  of  Leicester Peter  Golden 

Governor  of  Tilbury  Fort Dennis  Golden 

Master  of  the  Horse S.  De  Salvo 

Tilburina Ethel  Huyler  Gray 

Confidant Adele  Klaer 

Whiskerandos   Clifford  Devereux 

Beef-Eater Henry  Buckler 

First  Niece   Yvonne  Jarrette 

Second  Niece Helen  Lyon  Merriam 

Musicians.  . .  .Felix  Rappo,  Salvotore  De  Salvo,  John  De  Salvo 

ACT     I— Breakfast  at  Mr.  Dangle 's 

ACT  II— Scene  I— Before  the  Curtain  of  the  Theatre. 

Characters  in  the  order  in  which  they  appear. 
In  case  of  rain,  plays  will  be  staged  in  University  Auditorium.. 

TUESDAY  NIGHT 

8:30  O'CLOCK 

Outdoor  Play  The  Devereux  Players 

COMEDY  OF  ERRORS 

BY  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Solinus,  Duke  of  Ephesus Harold  Heath 

Aegeon,  A  Merchant  of  Syracuse Peter  Golden' 

A  Gaoler Edmund  J.  Fitzpatrick 


222  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

Balthazar  of  Syracuse,  Twin  Brother,  Son  to  Aegeon  and 

Amelia  but  unknown  to  each  other Dennis  Cleugh 

Dromio  of  Syracuse.  . .  . . . :  . .  .William  Podmore 

Dromio  of  Ephesus Henry  Buckler 

Twin  Brothers  attendants  on  the  two  Antipholus 
Adriana,  Wife  to  Antipholus  Ephesus.  . .  .Millicent  McLaughlin 

Luciana,  Her  Sister Ethel  H?uyler  Gray 

Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  Twin  brother,  Son  to  Aegeon  and 

Amelia  but  unknown  to  each  other Charles  Fleming 

Luce,  Servant  to  Adriana Yvonne  Jarrette 

Angelo,  A  Goldsmith . Madef rey  Odhner 

Officer John  Gilchrist 

A  Courtesan  Adele  Klaer 

Dr.  Pinch,  A  Conjurer Clifford  Devereux 

Headsman   Edgar  Ware 

Amelia,  Wife  to  Aegeon Helen  Lyon  Merriam 

Musicians ....  Felix  Rappo,  Salvotore  De  Salvo,  John  De  Salvo 

Characters  in  the  order  in  which  they  appear. 
In  case  of  rain,  plays  will  be  staged  in  University  Auditorium 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey        223 

program 


April  26, 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING,  APRIL  26 
12:00  O'CLOCK 

"A  Teacher  of  Shakespeare:     A  Eulogy".  .  .  .Prof.  E.  W.  Fay 
An  Ancient  Song  ..........................  Mrs.  J.  W.  Morris 

"Willow  Song"  ............................  Traditional 

"Willow  Song"   (from  Othello)  .............  '  ......  Verdi 

Introduction  of  the  Speaker  ..........  Prof.  J.  T.  Patterson 

"  'Know  Thyself  —  Interpreted  by  Socrates,  Shakespeare,  Har- 

vey, and  Men  of  Today"  ........  Address  by  Wm.  E.  Ritter. 

Director  of  the  Scripps  Institution  for  Biological  Research  of 

the  University  of  California. 

WEDNESDAY  AFTERNOON 
2:30  O'CLOCK 

First  Session,  Annual  Meeting  ....  The  Texas  Folk-Lore  Society 
Prof.  Barrett  Wendell  will  address  the  Society 

WEDNESDAY  AFTERNOON 
5:00  O'CLOCK 

A  SHAKESPEARE  FETE 

ON   THE   UNIVERSITY   CAMPUS 

By  the  Pupils  of  Baker,  Winn,  and  Wooldridge  Public  Schools 

PART  THE  FIRST 
THE  QUEEN'S  ENTERTAINMENT 

1.  Procession  to  the  Green 

2.  Entrance  of  Her  Majesty  and  Court 

3.  Puck's  Invitation   of   Shakespeare's   Fairies  and  Fools  to 

Frolic  among  the   Flowers. 

4.  Will's  Players  before  the  Queen 


224  University  of  Texas  Bulletin 

PART  THE  SECOND 

1.  Sellinger's  Round 

2.  The  Maypole 

3.  Ruffty  Tuffty 

4.  Bean  Setting 

5.  Sally  Luker 

6.  Sellinger's  Round 

WEDNESDAY  NIGHT 

8:30  O'CLOCK 

Outdoor  Play The  Devereux  Players 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

BY  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Mr.  Hardcastle,  A  Country  Gentleman * .  .  Charles  Fleming 

Mrs.  Hardcastle,  His  Wife .Millicent  McLaughlin 

Tony  Lumpkins,  Son  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle Clifford  Devereux 

Kate  Hardcastle,  Daughter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle 

Ether  Huyler  Gray 

Constance  Neville,  Cousin  to  Tony Adele  Klaer 

Tom  Twist,  A  Bear  Dancer Madefrey  Odhner 

•Jack  Slang,  A  Horse  Doctor Arthur  Barney 

Dick  Ginger,  A  feeder John  Jarrett 

Muggins,  An  Exciseman . Harold  Heath 

Aminadab,  A  Fiddler Burr  Chapman 

Stingo,  the  Landlord  of  "The  Three  Pigeons"  William  Podmore 

Maid,  At  '  *  The  Three  Pigeons  " Helen  Lyon  Merriam 

Young  Marlow,  Son  to  Sir  Charles Dennis  Cleugh 

Hastings,  His  Friend Peter  Golden 

Diggory Henry  Buckler 

Roger  Harold  Heath 

Thomas  John  Gilchrist 

Dick    John   Jarrett 

Servants  to  Hardcastle 


Memorial  Volume  to  Shakespeare  and  Harvey  225 

Dolly,  Maid  at  Hardcastles Yvonne  Jarrette 

Jeremy,  Servant  to  Young  Marlow Edgar  Ware 

Sir  Charles  Marlow,  Hardcastle  's  Friend Henry  Buckler 

Musicians.  . .  .Felix  Rappo,  Salvotore  De  Salvo,  John  De  Salvo 

Characters  in  the  order  in  which  they  appear. 

ACT       I.     Scene  I. — Room  in  Hardcastle 's  House. 
ACT     II.     Room  in  Hardcastle 's  House. 

Scene  II. — A  Country  Inn. 
ACT  III.     The  Same. 
ACT    IY.     Scene     I.— Hardcastle 's  Garden. 

Scene  II. — Room  in  Hardcastle 's  House. 

In  case  of  rain,  plays  will  be  staged  in  University  Auditorium. 


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